Rescued by Love

by Joan Vincent

  At dawn the cheerful twittering of the birds aroused Sarita from a restless sleep. Pulling her pillow over her head, she tried to ignore their joyous celebration, but their chatter continued, much like the questions seething in her mind.

  Unable to sleep, she rose, intent on slamming the windows shut until she saw Deborah still asleep. After hurriedly dressing Sarita plaited and pinned her dark hair in place and went to the kitchen to begin the morning’s breakfast. She hoped activity would ease the pain within her heart.

  Why had Cris returned looking like a footpad and at so late an hour? Why had he cautioned her to be silent? These questions overrode her usual care, and pots and pans, spoons and dishes rattled loudly as she went about her preparations.

  “‘Tis rubble you wish to be making?” Tessy’s curt voice startled Sarita. “Miss, what be upon you?” She surveyed the jumble with questioning disgust.

  “Did ye not sleep at all, child?” The large woman’s features grew concerned upon seeing the young woman’s distress. She ambled forward in a motherly fashion. “Why, ye ain’t pining for that Lord Dunstan, are ye?”

  “That is a ridiculous thought, Tessy. I’m only beginning breakfast for you,” Sarita returned edgily.

  “Thank ye. I don’t often have such help.” Hands on hips, the older woman glanced over the disarray. Likely her mother was at it last night, she thought, and she softened.

  “You just go back to bed, miss. I’ll manage breakfast this morn. If everyone picks at their food as they did yesterday, there won’t be much need of cooking.” She patted Sarita’s shoulder and edged her towards the door.

  “I wonder what that Mr. Sullivan will have to say for himself—if he comes back. You needn’t look so wide-eyed, miss,” she said, shaking her finger. “Many say he has reason and more to hope the earl meets with misfortune. The title be his if his lordship dies.”

  Colour drained from Sarita’s features. She bolted from the kitchen, leaving Tessy sadly shaking her head.

  Instinct directed her up the broad staircase towards her room. What am I to do? I must know if this is true, she thought wildly. Sarita clenched her fists as she thought of what Cris had asked her to do. I will go in Lady Brienne’s place, she decided. But Cris had said there could be no questions.

  Do you not love him enough to trust him? her heart demanded.

  The baroness hurried from her doorway to the perturbed young woman. “Sarita, was that you in the kitchen? Why, child you are distressed. Have they found Lord Enoch?”

  A shake of her head was all Sarita could manage.

  “Your hands are like ice. Come in to my chamber.” Lady Brienne guided Sarita forward.

  The door was just closing behind her when Sarita turned and grabbed the knob. “I must go,” she blurted. “To help Tessy.”

  “That would not be wise,” the baroness told her. She placed her hand atop Sarita’s. “The unusual disturbance I heard earlier will take some righting. I doubt that Tessy will be in a fair mood doing it. Now, sit down.” She took Sarita’s hand from the door and gave her no time to object as she pushed her into a chair. Satisfied that she would remain seated, Lady Brienne rummaged beneath the feather bed. She withdrew a silver flask and poured a golden liquid into a glass.

  “Drink this,” she commanded, putting the glass in Sarita’s hands.

  A large gulp of the apricot brandy momentarily relieved Sarita’s turmoil. She gasped for breath.

  “That’s better.” Lady Brienne sat down opposite her and was pleased to see colour returning to the young woman’s features. “Now tell me what has upset you.” She folded her arms and awaited the answer with a scrutinizing stare.

  The effect of the brandy or the challenge she read in this high-handed, white-haired old woman before her firmed Sarita’s resolve. Spirit replaced uncertainty in her eyes; her chin rose determinedly. “I don’t believe it,” she said adamantly.

  “Neither do I,” agreed the baroness crisply. “But could you tell me just what we don’t believe?”

  “They are saying Mr. Sullivan is responsible for Lord Enoch’s disappearance. That he wishes the title for himself,” Sarita blurted.

  Lady Brienne stiffened, her colour heightened. “Of all the foolish gibberish! Who has been spreading such a ridiculous rumour?”

  Something in the baroness’s tone caused Sarita to squirm uncomfortably. “Tessy only repeated what she heard from others.”

  “It’s about time that woman met her comeuppance. How dare she pass on such malicious gossip about my—” The baroness saw Sarita’s inquiring gaze “About my nephew’s secretary,” she ended. “I will see it goes no further in this house, never fear.” She reached across and patted Sarita’s hand.

  Grasping the baroness’ the younger woman asked, “If you loved a man and believed, truly believed, he was a good man, would you trust him completely? Even if it appeared—if circumstances seemed to say he was not?”

  “If I loved him—yes,” the baroness replied firmly.

  Peace flickered, then joy blazed in Sarita’s eyes as she fully surrendered her heart. She leaned forward and whispered, “You are to meet Mr. Sullivan at the brook just beyond the garden as soon as you are able this morn. No one is to know about it.”

  “When did you receive this message?” asked Lady Brienne, her curiosity flaring.

  Sarita shook her head; a blush brushed her cheeks. A wide smile came as she recalled Cris’ words: “It would be interesting to hear your explanation.”

  “Come now, miss. What have you been up to?” Lady Brienne demanded.

  “Nothing, my lady. Mr. Sullivan asked me to give you the message. I just think it strange of him not to come to see you himself.”

  “Ah ha! Waited until someone appeared in the kitchen this morn, did he? I suppose he heard about Henrietta’s—” She halted in mid-sentence. “Of course, he cannot dare to encounter her before—I must go at once. If anyone should ask for me before I return,” she continued hurriedly, gathering her bonnet and gloves, “tell them I felt like an early walk and went towards Monsieur Mandel’s.” She winked.

  “And tell Tessy I shall speak with her later.”

  * * * *

  “Can you manage it?” Lord Dunstan asked the baroness as they sat on a fallen tree beside a small stream.

  “Henrietta was never easily governed. Your father was one of the few to ever succeed,” she cautioned.

  “But can you do it?”

  Lady Brienne snapped her fingers confidently. “If I have to tie her to her bed.”

  “Nothing too desperate now. I hear Mother already has endured a vase of water,” Dunstan returned with feigned horror.

  “She was forewarned.” Lady Brienne rose. “What are Sullivan’s chances of being alive?”

  “They may believe he is of some use—as the earl. But if they learn he is not . . ..” He shrugged forlornly. “We must find him soon.”

  “Do you believe Pergrine has him?”

  “Feel you have me trapped at last, do you?” He chuckled. “What else do you suspect?”

  “It is more who than what at the moment. Pierre Mandel is a wily young man. He knows much of what occurs at Pergrine manor-more than his position deems likely. He also wears the finest new French silks, which the ladies of London would kill for, while his father’s clothing dates from before the revolution.

  “There is discord among those two, and not, I believe, because Pierre smuggles brandy and cloth for Peregrine. No, there is more. Much more to involve you to such a degree,” she ended shrewdly.

  “Visiting your dear old aunts, eh?” she accused. “I think you seek Lord Pergrine and Pierre Mandel.”

  “The two are connected,” Dunstan slowly admitted. “And now we have a third in sight. Lord Gerard arrives—”

  “I know, but surely you do not suspect such a widely respected man?”

  “How do you know of Lord Gerard’s coming?”

  “Ah, through young Monsieur Mandel. There is to be a grand celebra
tion, to use his words.” She leaned forward conspiratorially.

  “According to Mandel, Lady Pergrine refused to let an opportunity to have so many extraordinary guests pass.” She posed affectedly with a hand to her cheek. “Cannot say I blame the poor woman.”

  “Excellent,” Dunstan smiled. “Who is included in your invitation? When is it to be held?”

  “Why, everyone at the rectory has been invited. It is on Thursday next. But there is doubt about whether we should attend with Lord Enoch still missing.

  “This may be the opportunity I need. You must convince Mother to go along with this matter and then persuade the Durhams to attend the ball. We need a signal—I know.

  “Hang something white out of Lin’s bedchamber window when Mother has surrendered to—ah—reason. The sooner I can appear the better.”

  “But what of Lord Gerard?”

  “We think he is an innocent dupe at this point, but he handles some very important government and military papers.”

  “He is bringing them with him? But what would Pergrine do with them? Mandel?” she questioned. Understanding dawned. Her features twitched in anger. “Traitors.”

  “They will be dealt with,” Dunstan assured her. “Now off to your confrontation with Mother.” He rose and held out his hand to assist her.

  “There is some one you should explain matters to,” the baroness advised him as she accepted his hand. “Sarita has taken quite a buffeting, especially with all the gossip about Mr. Sullivan wanting the earl’s title.”

  “Wanting the earl’s title? But she does not believe—”

  “Of course not. But then, the foolish girl loves you, scoundrel that you are. Such love deserves trust.

  “I am not saying you must reveal all, but your activities bring to mind many suspicions—even to a loving aunt.” She winked. “It would be easy to lay her fears to rest.”

  He squeezed her hand. “TI shall be done. My looks last eve would have frightened off a lass with less spirit.” He smiled broadly.

  “You saw Sarita during the night?”

  “But didn’t she—Oh,” Dunstan teased, “I have evidently misjudged her abilities if she fobbed you off.”

  “Young man, you are incorrigible if not insulting.” The baroness frowned. “But be warned. Do not underestimate Pergrine or Mandel. That could prove disastrous in this business of yours.”

  * * * *

  A loud crash echoed through the rectory, followed by upraised voices. Sarita and Deborah paused as they met in the corridor at the foot of the stairs.

  “Do you think we should see what is happening?” Deborah asked. She threw a doubtful look up the stairs.

  “Lady Brienne said she was not to be disturbed while she spoke with Lady Dunstan,” Sarita told her.

  “But that does not sound like a conversation. More like a battle. And why did the baroness insist that they remove to a bedchamber instead of using the solarium or sitting room? Do you think Lady Dunstan is all right?”

  “They are sisters, Debs.”

  “That did not prevent Lady Dunstan’s dousing. With all this strain—”

  “Listen, it has become quiet. There is nothing to fret about. Do you want to come with me? Tessy has prepared a basket of food for the Strumms.”

  “No. I shall remain here. Father and Clem may return at any time with news.”

  “No more unnecessary fretting?”

  “I promise I won’t. I told Mother I would read to her this afternoon. You know how it eases her. Will you be gone long? Perhaps you should not go alone.”

  “I dislike asking any of the dowagers to go into the midday heat. I’ll ask Ben or to walk with me If I see them,” Sarita told her, marvelling at her sister’s sudden concern.

  A second outburst broke loose above them.

  “I had best hurry to Mother,” Deborah said. “She will be upset by this. Give my greetings to Mrs. Strumm,” she called back as she hastened up the staircase.

  How considerate Debs has become, Sarita thought as she went to the kitchen to collect the basket of foodstuffs. Reading to Mother, cautioning me. In the past these cares never entered her mind. And the change appears lasting, her thoughts continued as she stepped out the kitchen door into the overly warm sunshine.

  The disappearance of the earl has achieved more than all of Father’s lectures. She must love him as much as I care for Cris.

  “May the good Lord watch over us all,” Sarita breathed as she walked through the woods. In a short time the Strumm cottage was before her.

  “Miss Sarita be here! Miss Sarita be here,” the small children shouted. They dashed to greet her.

  “Now don’t be mussin’ miss’ gown,” Mrs. Strumm called at the door. “Pardon ‘em, miss. They get so excited when ye come.”

  “I don’t mind.” Sarita tousled the hair of the little boy beside her. She grinned.

  “As a matter of fact, I think there is a sweet cake for each of you sent especially by Tessy.”

  Four pairs of bright eyes looked longingly at the basket and followed on Sarita’s heels as she entered the dark, dirt-floored hut. Sleeping mats for the children were neatly stacked beneath the only bed in the lone room. A single beef tallow candle stood on the worn table, the only source of evening light.

  “God bless ye for yer kindness,” Mrs. Strumm told Sarita as the children rushed outside to eat their treats.

  “‘Tis not our gift but that of Lord Dunstan.”

  “But ye be the one bringin’ it, and ye have brought other gifts, even when there was naught for yer own house.”

  “I’m thankful we can help.”

  “Won’t be needin’ it much longer.” The worn woman drew up proudly with a wan smile. “Me ‘Enry be ‘ome soon.”

  “We’ll rejoice with you, Mrs. Strumm,” Sarita said happily, thinking how the man had been caught poaching on Pergrine’s land and sentenced to two years.

  “But ye need a sip o’ my wild basil tea. Ye be flushed ‘n over ‘eated.”

  “I must have hurried more than I meant to,” Sarita said. She accepted the chipped cup of bitter brew. As horrid as the tea was, Sarita couldn’t injure the woman’s pride in being able to offer her something in return for the food. Experience had taught her to gulp it quickly.

  “Take a care, miss. Ye shouldn’t be drinkin’ it so quick-like. Would ye want more?”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Strumm. I must return right away or Mother will fret.” Sarita handed her the cup and picked up the empty basket.

  “I ‘ope they be findin’ ‘is lordship soon,” the older woman said earnestly as they walked outside. “And take a care goin’ ‘ome.”

  “I will,” Sarita assured her, smiling. With a wave of her hand she tripped lightly off into the woods. Thoughts of all the suffering Lord Pergrine had caused kept pace with her.

  If only the wrongs could be righted, she thought. Should we attend the ball? Does Lord Pergrine wish to change? What of Cris? Had his talk with Lady Brienne precipitated the confrontation with Lady Dunstan? What would Cris have to do with an earl’s mother?

  A burst of laughter escaped. Such a beehive of questions, and no way to collect the answers. She had thought Debs was foolhardy. Who was the foolish one now? she asked, but a soft smile came to her lips.

  Sarita halted abruptly when a man stepped from behind a tree and confronted her. The happiness that filled her features upon thinking it was Cris faded when she recognized Pierre Mandel. “You should know better than to frighten people so,” she snapped angrily.

  “You did not look terrified when you first saw me, ma cherie,” Mandel said. He tried to capture her hand.

  “I wish you would not use those words,” she told him firmly, not flinching from his piercing gaze.

  “But you smiled so. Was there another you expected to see? That buffoon, Traunt?” He managed to catch her hand and cruelly squeezed it. With his other hand, Mandel wrenched the basket from her and threw it aside.

  Pulling her against h
im, he breathed, “Ma cheri, do you not know how long I have loved you?” His eyes stripped her of her gown as she struggled.

  “You shall be no one’s, only mine. Come away with me. As my wife, everything you desire shall be yours.”

  “Release me, Pierre,” Sarita gritted, “and I shall forgive this—”

  “Do you not see? The finest silks, the best wines, servants. All shall be yours.”

  Sarita kicked him hard in the shins. Her heart chilled at the light in Mandel’s eyes.

  “You wish to make this interessant? Such spirit. What a mariage we shall have.” He forced her close.

  The hunger in his eyes burned Sarita. She twisted, avoided his lips but shuddered when they brushed her cheek and neck. “I shall never marry you,” she panted as she writhed in his hold.

  “Think carefully, ma cherie. I shall have you—with or without marriage.” Mandel’s voice hardened. “Do not rouse my displeasure.” He tightened his grip.

  “You are hurting me,” Sarita pleaded, deciding to change tactics. “How can you say that you love me?” She lowered her eyes and stopped struggling.

  “You see—you need only speak.” Pierre loosened his hold. “A kiss, ma cherie, for your future husband.”

  His confidence sickened her. “You must forgive me, please, Sarita said coyly, despite her trembling. “This is so unexpected, so sudden. I have—never—never kissed a man such as you,” she breathed. Sarita kept her eyes to the ground to prevent them from betraying her.

  “Oh, ma cherie, I shall teach you all,” Mandel purred.

  Sarita forced herself to look at him, her face blazing red. “But we must know one another better.”

  “How modest my bride is.” Mandel brushed her check. “As you wish, ma cherie, but I am an impatient man.”

  “If I do not return soon, Mother will become worried.” She tried to ease past him.

  Mandel again captured her hand. He raised it to his lips. “And we mustn’t make your mother fret. I shall come with you. It would be best to speak to your father immediatement. We shall wed soon.” Keeping her hand in his grasp, he led the way.

  Sarita followed, her heart pounding at her narrow escape. If only the rectory would appear, she thought. Her heart leapt as she spied the bright yellow and green of the marchioness and countess’s parasols in the garden.