by Joan Vincent
“Mother, how can you even consider going to a hall at that man’s home? Especially when Lord Enoch may be—” Deborah threw her hands to her face and ran sobbing to the rectory.
“I agree most heartily with Miss Durham,” Lady Dunstan said acidly. “That you are even thinking of going is quite telling.” Tossing her head haughtily, she angrily followed Deborah.
“My sister is quite naturally upset at this time,” Lady Brienne told Mandel with a pleading smile. “We shall gladly accept Lord Pergrine’s kind invitation.”
“Lady Brienne,” Sarita burst forth, “surely—”
The baroness’s icy stare stilled the argument on the young woman’s lips. “You may assure Lady Pergrine that my sisters and I shall be there,” she said. Lady Brienne nodded towards a frowning Lady Imogene and a distressed Lady Phillippa.
“And you?” Mandel’s eyes flashed back to Sarita.
“That shall be decided later,” the baroness told him, taking his arm. “Walk with me. I must know what the usual dress is at these country affairs.” She spoke easily as she led him a short distance from the group.
The countess and Lady Phillippa exchanged questioning glances as they took in this unusual turn of conversation from Lady Brienne. She who selected her own toilette without the least consideration for what others wore.
“My, my,” Mrs. Durham mumbled, her composure deeply shaken.
“Mother, calm yourself,” said Sarita. “Let us see to luncheon for our guests.”
“Yes, of course,” her head bobbed. “Yes,” she spoke aloud, looking at no one as she turned and walked slowly away.
Concerned, Sarita followed her. She glanced back at the baroness and Mandel.
Pierre caught her look, quickly excused himself with a bow, and hastened to her side. “A message from my father, ma cherie,” he said quietly. “He says you will understand this.” Mandel posed affectedly.
“‘The moon will be high; the time is nigh. The star is about to burst in the sky.’ Vous comprenez?”
Sarita shook her head slowly, then understanding dawned. “Of course,” she smiled, a hint of excitement in her voice.
“If only you would look this way for me.” He reached to touch her cheek.
The baroness joined them at this moment and deftly took hold of Pierre’s arm. “How naughty of you,” she twittered. “You see Miss Durham often, but we visit for only a brief time. ‘Tis said that if we please some, others will also be pleased.” She nodded meaningfully at Sarita.
“Oui, as you say,” he agreed with a sly smile.
“You may go and help your mother,” Lady Brienne instructed Sarita, who walked away with deliberate steps, undecided whether to be thankful for being rescued or angry at the baroness’s manner.
Pierre kissed Lady Brienne’s hand. “You will see that the mademoiselle attends the ball?”
“Of course, monsieur. But could you not describe some of the guests we shall meet?” she asked affectedly. “It is so much more interesting to be able to recognize a few of the more important people. It impresses them bloody well, too,” she added with a wink.
“Oui, my lady,” he smiled. “The principal guest shall be Lord Gerard, a man easily known, being tall, jowl-faced—one certain of his own importance.” Mandel began his descriptions, revealing much about others—and himself.
* * * *
“Do you think the dowagers mean to go to the ball?” Deborah asked as the two sisters retired to their room after a long, fruitless day. “Surely their sensibilities forbid it? You heard Father tell them how widely they have searched and to no avail,” she ended sadly. A tear trailed down her pale cheek.
Sarita sat on the bedside with her sister. “Don’t cry again, Debs.” She took her hand. “We will find Lord Enoch.”
“But Father said—”
“He only meant that it would take more time to find Lord Dunstan than he had thought. No one knows the countryside like Clem, and when Mr. Sullivan returns, even on the morrow, they will find the earl.”
“Oh, Sarry, I’ve been such a fool. I’ll never again look at—at Irish lace—or even think of Italian combs for my hair.” She daubed at her eyes. “If only Enoch is found— unharmed.” Deborah sniffed and blew her reddened nose.
“You must learn a lesson from this, Sarry. If Mr. Sullivan pays court, seize the opportunity,” she advised with wide-eyed seriousness.
“You know that with Mother’s weakness of mind—her dependence—I could never leave,” Sarita answered softly, studying her hands. She raised her chin determinedly. “Let us keep our worries with Lord Enoch for now,” she laughed nervously and rose. “Don’t be concerned if you hear someone come in during the night. I will be going out.”
“What could you be doing at this time of night?” A weak smile came to Deborah’s lips. “It wouldn’t be Pierre, would it?” she teased.
Sarita threw a pillow at her sister. “Do you advise me to encourage Monsieur Mandel as well?”
“The son or the father? You never?” Deborah burst into laughter at Sarita’s look. “Oh, go to your plants and flowers.” She fell back on her bed, a second pillow caught. Hugging it close, Deborah renewed her prayers for Lord Enoch’s safe return as the door closed behind Sarita.
* * * *
“It is a matter of timing, Mademoiselle Sarita. An hour, longer perhaps. See . . . the petals begin to separate.” Monsieur Mandel pointed to the pinkish-veined, swordlike petals just slightly apart on the bud.
“Would it not be best if you waited here? I dislike you walking home alone in the dark, and I dare not leave. The drawings must be precise at each stage.”
“Don’t worry, monsieur. It is safe enough and best that I be in the rectory should Mother awake.”
Deep concern lined his features. “These are uncertain times, mademoiselle. Think of what happened to Lord Enoch.” He read the determination in her stance and shrugged. “God watch over your path,” he said in farewell.
Deciding it would be faster to go home by means of a seldom-travelled path instead of the usual one between the greenhouse and the rectory, Sarita hurried forward. The night light, however, was very poor and the path had become more overgrown than she recalled.
I’d best return to the other path, she thought, and struck out at a right angle for it. A few paces off the track the murmur of voices coming towards her lurched her to a halt. Crouching, Sarita huddled next to a tree, hoping she would not be discovered.
The voices came closer, the words understandable. “Le Blatte says they must have the troop number and movement information before more gold will be sent,” a raspy whisper sounded.
“Do they know the costs I bear?” a second objected. “The plans are almost in our grasp. Do they wish to risk losing them? Tell Le Blatte I must have 4000 pounds for the final bribe. Without it we shall have gained nothing. And there must be assurances that a boat will be waiting if it proves necessary to depart suddenly.”
“I can promise nothing, for it is getting too risky to keep a boat in the coves. Last night a dozen men caught one of our craft, hidden as it was among the rocks. Luckily, it was only carrying brandy, but fortune will not always cause a last-minute change in cargo. It could well have been the gold or the muskets, which arrived tonight.”
“Fortune is with me. Only a few days more and all I wish will be mine,” the second bantered cockily as the two passed not ten yards from Sarita. “Napoleon will be trés genereux for what I have accomplished.”
Sarita stifled a gasp as she caught a glimpse of this man’s face. It was Pierre Mandel. Waiting until she could no longer hear the pair, she rose and ran quickly to the well-trod path. Her headlong steps took her rapidly towards the rectory, and she did not pause until safely inside.
From his place beneath the shrubs in the garden where he had scrambled at the sound of running footsteps, Dunstan saw Sarita’s pell-mell return. He puzzled over it as he climbed the trellis to the upper storey. Edging along the stone ledge, he eased ope
n a window and quickly slipped into the chamber. Despite what he had been told by Jervy, he made a quick check of the bedchamber, as if hoping to find Lin there.
A deep frown covered his features. First the raiding party had failed to net anything other than brandy, and now Lin had been kidnapped. Where was he and why was Sarita running as if the ghost of Malvern were after her?
Jervy, he thought, he may know what she is about. I wonder why he didn’t mention it. I will have to contact him again. Dunstan sat upon the large, canopied bed.
But first some sleep, he told his exhausted body as he laid back on the inviting softness. His thoughts flew over all the possibilities concerning Lin and Sarita and settled on her image as he drifted to sleep.
A dog howling in the distance brought Dunstan abruptly to consciousness. He rose instantly, walked to the windows, and scanned the garden and open meadow in the murky darkness. Nothing met his eyes.
He slipped out the open window and down the trellis, drawn by an unfathomable need. Just as he touched the ground, the click of iron against iron sounded and he realized someone was using the kitchen door. The petite, gowned figure scurrying away from the rectory pawed at his heart. “Sarita,” he whispered quietly and hurried to follow.
With an uneasy spirit Sarita began the return trip to Mandel’s. The brief conversation she had overheard had made sleep impossible. Pierre Mandel, a traitor. That alone was what their talk of being rewarded by Napoleon could mean. But what could he know what would help the First Consul?
Poor Monsieur Mandel. This will break his heart. Should I tell him? No. Then Father? Doubt remained unresolved as the greenhouse loomed before her.
Entering, she made her way to Mandel’s solitary light. Over his shoulder she took in the beauty he had waited so long to see. “Oh, it is simply marvellous, monsieur. All you said it would be,” Sarita breathed as she gazed at the fully opened blossom, the glistening white of its interior enhanced by the delicate golden stamen within.
“Oui, c’est magnifque.” He paused in his sketching. “The perfect bloom that I have worked for. My drawings and report shall win the grand prize from the Academy in London. Then perhaps Pierre—perhaps when we have the money it shall ease—” He halted, his eyes back to the delicate, long-petalled flower that was as large as a saucer.
“C’est belle,” he mused. “Le cereus grandiforus. What a long journey from Amerique it has had. Senor Corata gave the tiny plant to Monsieur Trienne to give me when he sailed from the Spanish colonies two years ago. It may be the only one of its kind in England.”
“I am so glad I was able to see it.” Sarita smiled at his oft-told words. “Are you certain it will close by morn? I would so like the dowagers to see it.”
“Those who have seen it say there will be nothing but a limp glob of opaque pulp by morn,” Mandel told her regretfully.
“So beautiful. How sad it has to be so brief.”
“Blossoms are not the only things in life that are momentary. Many times happiness, too, must be snatched before it is gone,” the old Frenchman said, putting his hand on Sarita’s shoulder.
She mentally winced at the knowledge that she held about Pierre. “I suppose,” she answered, aching for him. “I must go,” she blurted as tears came to her eyes.
“Oui. I shall walk with you this time.”
“There is no need. No, I am certain,” she hurriedly assured him. Adieu.” With a wave of her hand, she left the old man glorying in the perfect blossom of the night-blooming cereus.
Sarita’s heart pounded abnormally loud in her ears as she walked along the path. It seemed every shadow held an unknown danger. Tears for Monsieur Mandel, for Deborah and Lord Enoch, and for herself, came to her eyes.
At the edge of the woods Sarita gasped with fright. A tallish, square form of a man blocked her path. In the pale moonlight she blanched bone white. A scream lodged in her throat. She swayed.
“It is I—Cris,” Dunstan told her.
With a sob of welcome relief she stepped into his open arms.
The earl held her tightly for a long, savoured moment, then gently eased her back and searched her small face. He slowly traced a tear’s path. “Why do you cry, my little one? I did not mean to startle you so. Forgive me?”
The relief, the warmth, drained from Sarita as she returned his gaze. Her eyes took in the rough growth of beard, the tattered, soiled garments he wore. “Why? What?” she stammered
“My appearance is rather untoward.” He grimaced uneasily. “But,” the grimace turned to a teasing smile, “methinks it odd to find my love roaming the woods at such an hour.”
Sarita’s heart lurched at his words. “My love” echoed in her mind.
“Is it fear I read?” The earl drew her closer once more. “Do you not know I—” Words failed; his lips claimed hers.
An impulse to resist surged through Sarita. Her hands went to his chest to fend him off. At the moment of contact she knew this man’s strength, a strength that somehow comforted. Monsieur Mandel’s caution warned that this might be her chance to snatch at happiness. Slowly she relaxed into his embrace, stole her hands softly about his neck.
A long moment later Dunstan unwillingly drew back, a wry smile on his lips. “If I would ask—” He paused.
Sarita read a flash of uncertainty,
“If I asked would you wed me freely, with no explanations?”
Loving mischief sparkled through the dampness in her eyes. “I would have no fewer questions than you.”
“Would you marry me?”
His earnestness gripped her.
Melancholy came to Sarita with reality’s return. She stifled the impulse to answer as she wished. “If I were free, I would. With no questions asked.”
Dunstan lovingly traced the line of her cheek, and softly kissed her lips. After a long gaze he shook himself, his hold eased. “Lin—Lord Enoch. Where has he gone?” he asked, studying her closely.
“How do you know he is gone?” Sarita’s eyes flew towards the rectory, a mound of darkness in the meadow before them.
“No questions,” he returned, quashing his desire to explain.
Sarita studied the man before her. That she loved him, she did not question. But he stood before her in the semblance of a rogue, a footpad. Who was he? Did she dare trust him with all she knew?
“What has happened to—to the earl?” Dunstan pressed her for an answer.
“He has disappeared. Since late last eve. Father believes he has been kidnapped, perhaps murdered.” She saw pain flicker over Dunstan’s features.
“No one is certain,” she hurried to explain. “You see, we had all retired to our rooms except for Father when Lady Dunstan arrived.” Sarita paused at the quiver that went through him.
“Lady Dunstan demanded to see the earl, but Father could not find him. We found only his hat in the garden.”
“Damnation,” the earl swore. He was to blame for this.
“Father, Clem, and several other men searched all this day,” she said to comfort him, not knowing he was already privy to this information. Strangely, his distress relieved her and yet it puzzled.
“Do you know what has become of him?” she forced herself to ask.
“I have my suspicions,” he returned curtly.
“Do you think he still lives?” she added softly.
“I pray it is so.” He tightly gripped her hand. “For it is my doing if he has been harmed.” He shook his head at her questioning plea. “I will walk you to the rectory.” Cris took her arm and walked slowly forward.
“It wouldn’t do for you to encounter anyone,” he told her with a hollow laugh. They walked half the distance in silence, then Dunstan spoke again. “Will you ask the baroness to come to the brook just beyond the garden in the morn as soon as she rises?”
“If you wish,” Sarita answered slowly. “Will you not return to the rectory now?”
“What would your father have to say of the two of us, walking about unchaperoned at this ho
ur?” A hint of humour edged his voice. “No,” the seriousness returned, “I must ask you to have faith in me, no matter what circumstances bid you to believe. Have faith for just a short time longer.” His eyes pleaded as he spoke. He paused.
“How has Lady Dunstan taken the news?”
“Rather badly. She accused Father of having been responsible for Lord Enoch’s being shot and now of having done away with him. Lady Brienne tried to reason with her but ended by pouring a vase of water over her. It has all been so . . . odd,” she sighed. “They seem to have reconciled. At least Lady Dunstan goes on well with Deborah. I do not envy my sister when Lord Enoch is found and they marry,” she said without thinking.
“Truly?” Open humour filled Dunstan’s voice and features.
“I did not mean—” His grin unaccountably angered Sarita. “You should know Lady Dunstan well enough to know what I mean.”
“I know her ladyship well, indeed.” He squeezed Sarita’s hand. “And your words are not unfounded.”
“Never mind,” she returned sharply. “If you know her so well, you realize she would never approve of your dressing in such a hideous manner or of your prowling about as you evidently have been doing.”
“No more than she would her son doing it,” he countered lightly.
Something in his voice tugged at Sarita. She reached to touch his cheek.
Catching her hand, the earl brushed it with a kiss. “Tell no one but the baroness,” he instructed. “It would be interesting to hear your explanation of how you encountered me,” he teased, cocking his head.
“Your explanation would be equally fascinating.”
“Is it a nagging wife I shall have?” he quipped, and led her on before she could answer. At the kitchen door he kissed her lingeringly, then gently pushed her inside and hurried off. “Good sleep, my love.”
With a last look to ensure he had not been a mirage, Sarita trembled. Her heart longed to soar with happiness and yet shuddered, for she had not told him of Mandel’s treachery.
Chapter 18