Enchanted Rendezvous: A Tangled Hearts Romance

by Rebecca Ward

  But such gloomy thoughts disappeared as a servant girl with red hair and a wealth of freckles on her pert nose came tripping toward her. She dropped a knee and announced, “Me name’s Mary, Miss. Mr. Grigg has directed me to make up the fern room for you. If you’ll let me have your bag, and the basket, too?”

  Archimedes poked his head out of the basket and hissed so menacingly that the girl backed away. “He is not used to strangers,” Cecily apologized.

  The girl looked nervously at the basket and hastily led the way up the carpeted stairs. “It’s for sure you’ve had a long journey, ma’am. I’ll light the fire and then see if I can find a bit of tea and toast for you—and a saucer of milk for himself there.”

  The room into which Cecily was ushered was a pleasant surprise. Unlike the dark and opulent anteroom below, it was a study in shades of green. While Mary lit the fire in the big marble fireplace, Cecily admired watercolor studies of flowers and ferns, apple-green hangings and the viridescent shades of the watered silk sofa and matching armchair. Archimedes apparently also approved of his surroundings, for after emerging stiffly from his basket and sniffing the emerald Aubusson carpet, he displayed his one canine tooth in a yawn and lay down.

  But though bone-weary herself, Cecily could not rest. When Mary had gone downstairs to see about the tea, she walked to the window and opened it a little. Through that crack she could smell the raw scent of salt and could hear the muted crash of breakers.

  “It is very different from Sussex,” she mused. Then, as a soft knock announced Mary’s return, she added, “I wish it were daylight so that I could see where I am.”

  “It will be morning soon enough.”

  A lady had entered the room. She was tall, slender, and dressed in a moss-green brocaded dressing gown trimmed with swansdown. She had masses of white hair, which had been braided and piled on top of her head, and high cheekbones that gave character to her lovely, almost unlined face. Her smile was charming, but her green eyes were somewhat guarded.

  “Lady M-Marcham?” Cecily stammered.

  The lady nodded. “And you are my niece’s daughter.”

  She glided forward to embrace her guest, and enfolded by the warm fragrance of verbena, Cecily began to apologize. “I am being a nuisance, Grandaunt. I fear that my coming has disturbed you.”

  The lady looked rueful. “I do not like this title of grandaunt. It makes me feel as if I am in my dotage. You will call me Aunt Emerald, if you please.” She stepped back and searched Cecily’s face before adding, “And, no, you are not a nuisance, but I confess that I am surprised, Cecily. Since your refusal a year ago, I have not heard from you.”

  “I sent you a letter from Sussex last week, but I collect that you might not have received it.” Lady Marcham shook her head, and Cecily added unhappily, “I know that I should have waited for a reply, but I could not afford to stay on at the Golden George, and try as I might, I could not find a position that would allow me to keep a cat. I had to leave the Netherbys’ quite suddenly, you see.”

  Instead of reacting to this news, Lady Marcham mused, “You have your father’s gray eyes and serious expression, but your black hair and that peach-bloom complexion come from your mother’s side. The heart shape of your face reminds me of your grandmother, my dear sister Elizabeth. Now, who are these Netherbys, and why did you have to leave them?”

  Cecily blinked at the rapid change of subject. “Because I boxed Giles Netherby’s ears when he tried to force himself into my bedroom,” she replied frankly. “I was his younger sister’s governess, and he thought that gave him special favors from me.”

  Lady Marcham’s green eyes narrowed to emerald slits. “Did you inform Mrs. Netherby about this loose fish?”

  “Oh, yes, but she did not believe me.” A dangerous sparkle lit Cecily’s eyes. “I understand that he had played such tricks with my predecessors also and thought me easy game. I should have kicked him down the stairs instead of merely blackening his eye.”

  “A great pity,” Lady Marcham agreed. She sat down on the sofa and patted the cushions next to her. When Cecily obeyed, she commented, “So. You look like your gentle mother but are proud like your father. You are independent in your thinking as well and wished to make your bread rather than live on the charity of an ancient relative you never met.”

  Cecily’s cheeks flushed, but a wry smile curved her lips. “Alas, ma’am, you have painted my portrait to a fault. Papa always insisted that females should not be weak, clinging creatures.”

  She swallowed hard and added, “I hope you do not regret inviting me to come to Dorset. If it is in any way inconvenient that I remain here, you must say so—”

  Lady Marcham waved a delicately perfumed hand. “Do not talk fustian, pray. I am delighted that you are here, my dear. But I wish I had sent a carriage for you. That any kin of mine should stoop to travel on the mail coach is the outside of enough.”

  Cecily’s relief was so sharp as to bring tears to her eyes. She blinked them back and tried to laugh as she protested, “But my travels were vastly entertaining, ma’am.”

  She gave her grandaunt a lively account of the evening’s adventures. Lady Marcham listened carefully, but when Cecily recounted her dramatic rescue, she paled a little.

  “The Widow’s Rock is a dangerous place. How foolish of the coachman to press on in spite of fog. As to Colonel Howard, he and his so-called Riders are muttonheads. Why should they bother to hunt for smugglers, when the place is already crawling with excisemen?” For a moment she frowned and then added, “But you are here and safe now, my dear, and Archimedes, too.”

  At sound of his name, the cat raised his head sleepily, picked himself up from his place by the fire, and strolled over to sniff at Lady Marcham’s gown. Then, to Cecily’s surprise, he rubbed his shaggy gray head against the lady’s knee.

  “I am persuaded that he likes you,” Cecily exclaimed. “How extraordinary! Archimedes usually loathes strangers, and here he has made two friends in one night. The gentleman with the lion ring said that Archimedes walked directly to him—but that was probably because he was foxed.”

  Lady Marcham bent to rub the cat’s chin. “You mean young James Montworthy? A good-looking boy, but a perfect sapskull. He can think of nothing but hunting and racing curricles and considers himself irresistible to females. No, my dear, I prefer Trevor, though he can be irritating, too.”

  Seeing that Cecily looked blank, Lady Marcham closed her eyes and shook her head. “I must be in my dotage. I forgot to tell you that I have another guest here at Marcham Place. Lord Brandon is the eldest son of the Duke of Pershing. The late duchess was my bosom bow, and so Trevor is my godson.”

  “Could Lord Brandon have been the gentleman who rescued us tonight?” Cecily wondered and was surprised when her grandaunt burst out laughing.

  “Trevor? Oh, good heavens, no. La, my dear, what an idea. When you meet him, you will understand how amusing that is.”

  But instead of listening, Cecily was staring at her grandaunt’s feet. As she had leaned back to laugh, Lady Marcham’s dressing gown had slipped up to reveal not bedroom slippers but leather boots. Wet, muddy boots.

  Lady Marcham followed her grandniece’s eyes. “You have found me out.” She sighed ruefully. “You see, Grigg has been with me for so long that he has become a tyrant. He glumps at me if I so much as mention a stroll after dinner, and I should never have heard the end of it if he saw me walking in my garden. It’s the best time to gather them, of course.”

  “To gather what, ma’am?”

  Smiling into her niece’s bewildered face, Lady Marcham explained, “Herbs. Cecily. Did your papa never tell you that my grandmother was accounted a ‘wise woman’? She taught me all she knew about the healing power of plants.” She added thoughtfully, “Of course there were some superstitious cabbage-heads who considered Grandmama a witch, but since she was kind and good and—more to the point—rich and powerful, nobody dared to openly accuse her of sorcery.”

&n
bsp; “How idiotic,” Cecily exclaimed.

  “That is what I say. But though this is 1814, I am persuaded that a number of want-wit locals are convinced I use bats’ tongues and toads’ warts in my distillations. But enough of such foolishness. You are exhausted and must rest.”

  She kissed Cecily, rose to her feet, and in spite of those heavy leather boots, seemed to glide out of the chamber. Archimedes followed her to the door, twitched his lumpy tail, then sat down to gaze at Cecily out of unwinking golden eyes.

  Cecily stared back in thoughtful silence. She was remembering the tone of voice in which Mrs. Horris had spoken of Lady Marcham.

  “This is extraordinary,” she said at last. “Archimedes, it seems that we have got a sorceress for a grandaunt.”

  Chapter Two

  Lullabied by the sound of distant waves, Cecily slept soundly until her dreams were invaded by a persistent meowing. Eyes still closed, she muttered, “Archimedes, pray go back to sleep.”

  Her only answer was a fiendish howl. Cecily sat straight up in bed and for a moment felt disoriented. Then memory of last night’s events came back. She was in the fern room at Marcham Place, and her cat was crouched on the windowsill.

  His back was arched, his neck was tensed, and as he stared at some point in the distance, his tail furiously slashed the air. “I collect that you have spied a pigeon,” Cecily said in tones of resignation. “You know very well that you are too slow even to catch a snail, and it is too bad of you to frighten me half to death. Now will you—”

  The cat interrupted her by slithering through the narrow opening in the window. “Archimedes,” Cecily shouted, “come back at once!”

  She jumped out of bed and ran to throw open the window. It overlooked Lady Marcham’s rose gardens, where, under a cloudy sky, the flowers looked heavy-headed and out of sorts. In the center of the garden was a marble statue of Cupid holding a basin. Birds of every description were feeding from this basin.

  Archimedes, belly to the ground and lumpy tail outstretched, was stalking the birds. Cecily leaned her arms on the windowsill and waited until the cat made its spring. As expected, he did not reach the top of the basin and instead tumbled backward into the rosebushes. The birds scattered, and Archimedes gave chase. In a few moments he had disappeared into the japonica bushes that edged the rose garden.

  “Drat that cat,” Cecily exclaimed.

  Archimedes’s sense of direction was as faulty as his timing, and he was sure to get lost in these unfamiliar surroundings. Cecily tossed off her nightcap and gown, dressed hastily, barely paused to brush back her hair, then donned stout walking shoes suitable for pursuit.

  She met no one in the hall, and at the door a bleary-eyed footman stared at her in midyawn. Ignoring him, Cecily flew outdoors calling, “Archimedes, where have you got to?”

  He was not in the rose gardens. Still calling to her cat, Cecily followed a path that led through the japonica bushes into another larger garden where topiary trees edged beds of flowers and greenery. A brass sundial shaped like a sunflower turned its face skyward, and a large marble statue of Ceres presided over the point where the garden opened up into the woods beyond.

  From the fragrance that hung over the place, Cecily knew she had found her grandaunt’s herb garden. She looked around her, but there was still no sign of Archimedes. “Where are you, you old reprobate?” she cried, exasperated.

  “Were you addressin’ me?”

  Cecily whipped around as a gentleman rose from a marble bench. The bench had been half concealed by the statue of Ceres, so she had not noticed him before, but now that he advanced upon her, she wondered how she could have possibly overlooked him.

  Even at this early hour he was dressed in colors that rivaled the flowers. He wore a bottle-green double-breasted jacket with five brass buttons, each as big as a man’s fist. The collar of his yellow shirt rose fashionably high upon his cheeks, and there was the glint of gold in the intricate folds of his snowy cravat. His close-fitting, high-waisted pantaloons of canary-yellow stockinette disappeared into glossy high-heeled boots with gold tassels. As he sauntered closer to her, he fumbled with one long-fingered hand at the quizzing glass that hung on a gold riband about his neck.

  “Were you addressin’ me?” the gentleman repeated.

  His voice was both affected and bored. He looked too torpid even to hold up his gold-handled walking stick. Cecily blushed furiously, curtsied and said, “No, indeed, I—that is to say, I apologize for startling you, sir. I was looking for my cat.”

  “Cat?” The dandified gentleman looked vaguely about. “Don’t see any cat, ’pon my honor. Does this feline belong to you, ma’am?”

  “I am afraid so. I brought him here with me, and I am persuaded that he will be lost if—there you are!”

  The old tomcat had calmly stalked out of the woods. His coat was covered with burrs, his tail had swelled to three times its normal size, and his one tooth pulled his lip up into a sneer.

  Lord Brandon lifted his quizzing glass to his eye. “Animal looks a trifle nagged, ’pon my honor. Is it the same one you’ve lost, ma’am?”

  “Yes. Archimedes, come here,” Cecily said. The cat looked the other way. “I am Cecily Vervain, Lady Marcham’s grandniece,” she continued. “I am sorry to have disturbed you, sir.”

  As the gentleman bowed, Cecily was sure she heard the whalebone in his corset creaking. “Lord Brandon, at your service, Miss Verving.”

  Cecily frankly stared. Her late father had been an admirer of the Ice Duke, as Pershing was known in some circles, but nothing of the stern soldier and statesman could she see in his eldest son. It was no wonder, Cecily thought, that Aunt Emerald had laughed at the notion that her godson could have rescued anyone.

  She looked critically at the lord, who was of medium height and looked to be in his early thirties. He had an aquiline nose, a strong chin, and a fine mouth and might have been almost handsome if it were not for his affectations and graces. Though he had not gone so far as to paint his face and hands with lead, as many of the London dandies did, he wore a large decorative patch at the corner of his lips and another one near his eye. Cecily could hardly tell the color of those eyes, since they were half-concealed by heavy, drooping eyelids.

  Even so, they were taking her measure. Cecily sensed that she was being examined, weighed, judged, and discarded in one lazy blink of those hooded eyelids. “Stayin’ in Dorset long, Miss Vervant?” Lord Brandon drawled.

  “My name is not—” but Cecily was interrupted by a yelp from Brandon.

  “Do you see that?” he demanded.

  Was she dealing with a Bedlamite? “What must I see?” Cecily asked cautiously.

  “Lint!” Lord Brandon extended his right arm and tapped the immaculate sleeve of his coat. “Look at that—it’s lint. Andrews will hear of this. It’s intolerable, ’pon my honor. He knows that I insist that all my clothin’ be immaculate.”

  He withdrew his arm, produced a jeweled snuffbox from his pocket, shook a pinch out on his wrist, and inhaled. Every movement he made was in such slow motion that Cecily began to feel sleepy herself.

  “If you will excuse me,” she said briskly, “I must take my cat back to the house.”

  But as she started toward him, Archimedes got up and began to walk toward the woods. “Do come here,” Cecily pleaded, but the cat paid no attention. “Oh, Archimedes, why are you behaving so badly?”

  “I say, cat.” Lord Brandon tapped the ground with his stick. “Here, puss. Come here, tabby.”

  To Cecily’s utter astonishment, Archimedes turned, hesitated, then began to saunter toward Lord Brandon. Here he paused and sniffed the lord’s natty boots.

  “I do not believe it. He listened to you. But,” she added in some alarm, “I beg that you will not touch him. Archimedes does not like strangers—”

  She broke off in astonishment as the cat went belly-up in front of Lord Brandon.

  “I grew up with a lot of cats,” he explained. “Sensible cr
eatures, I always thought, with a proper feelin’ for important things like eatin’ and sleepin’.”

  Languidly he stooped to rub Archimedes’s stomach. There was a dull glint of gold, and Cecily started as she saw the ring on Lord Brandon’s right ring finger.

  “Good Lord,” she exclaimed.

  The ring that was shaped like a lion swallowing its own tail. No, Cecily thought. It is impossible.

  Her rescuer last night had been a larger man. He had exuded an energy and resolve, and his movements had been full of confidence and authority. His voice had commanded respect, yet had been tinged with humor.

  Lord Brandon straightened, withdrew a white lace-edged handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his hands. A wave of cloying, musky perfume emanated from the handkerchief and wafted across the herb garden.

  No, Cecily amended. Not impossible—ludicrous.

  Archimedes sat up, gave a final approving sniff to Lord Brandon’s boots, and began sauntering back toward the house. Lord Brandon used his perfumed handkerchief to smother another yawn.

  “You must have arrived late last night, Miss, Verving,” he commented. “I did not see you at dinner. It was a very good dinner, ’pon my honor. My godmother has a good cook—a female cook, which is not considered tonnish, but you have to make allowances for the country.”

  Cecily, her eyes still on the lion ring, could think of nothing to say except, “Aha.”

  “By now, no doubt, the worthy Mrs. Horrifant has laden the breakfast table with specimens of her art. I’m hungry as a bear, I assure you.”

  He looked like a very sleepy bear. Even so, Cecily felt she had to make one more effort. “I arrived very late last night,” she said. “There was a very thick fog, and the driver of the coach could not go fast. You know what it is to drive in fog.”

  Lord Brandon looked indignant. “On the contrary, I assure you I don’t. Ridin’ at night is ruinous to the complexion, especially ridin’ in the fog.”

  Impossible and ludicrous. Cecily turned and began to follow Archimedes out of the herb garden.