by Rebecca Ward
Lord Brandon fell into step beside her. “Very important, the complexion,” he told her earnestly. “It’s got to be preserved, Miss Verving, at all costs! I myself use certain herbs, which I personally gather each mornin’ fresh from Lady M.’s garden. It’s an exhaustin’ task, but a man only has one skin.”
Had he actually giggled? Cecily glanced askance at the strutting figure beside her and mentally shrugged her shoulders. So much for wild imaginings, she thought. If Lord Brandon was in any way heroic, pigs would commence to fly.
Archimedes chose to reenter Marcham House through the window, and Cecily, who had hastened upstairs to prepare for breakfast, found Mary cowering outside her chamber door.
“Holy saints above us, ma’am,” the abigail exclaimed, “it’s glad I am you’re here. Himself tried to scratch me eyes out when I went in to bring you your tea.”
Cecily opened the door and nearly stumbled over a gray, shaggy body. Apparently Archimedes had decided to stand guard over the door.
“What is the matter with you?” she scolded. “You are a guest here, sir, not the lord of the manor! I have had quite enough of your starts for one day, and you will let Mary come and go as she pleases.”
“Holy saints, ma’am. Does that cat understand the King’s English, then?” Mary gasped.
Cecily glared at Archimedes. “He understands enough not to bite the hand that feeds him.”
Gingerly Mary entered the room and, muttering under her breath, stepped past the cat. Recognizing an old charm her nurse had used against witchcraft, Cecily smiled. “I assure you that Archimedes is not a witch cat.”
Mary looked embarrassed. “Sure, and I don’t mean no disrespect,” she murmured, “but it’s fey country here. Aren’t the Haunted Woods right here on Marcham land? And wasn’t that where our master, the holy saints above rest him easy, got thrown from his horse, him who could outride everyone in the country?”
She continued to talk about the woods as she assisted Cecily to dress and arrange her long black hair à la Didion. “They say that the spirits of the Druids walk there,” she related, “and that the little people come and dance on moonlit nights.” Then, lowering her voice to a whisper, she added, “And on the dark of the moon, the widow’s ghost walks. Last one to see her was an exciseman, found stone-dead the next day.”
Probably shot by a smuggler, Cecily thought. “Is there much, smuggling going on in Dorset?” she asked.
Mary shrugged. “The brethren of the coast have been active here since my great-grandpa’s day, ma’am. There’s many places to land hereabouts—Robin’s Cove and Gull’s Nest Inlet, and Eagle’s Point. Those excisemen try to catch them, but the brethren are too clever to be caught.”
Was her rescuer of last night one of the brethren? Cecily would have liked to ask more questions, but she knew that she could not keep the others waiting. She hurried through the rest of her toilet and was walking down the stairs when she heard her name called.
Lord Brandon was sauntering down the stairs behind her. “I have just finished rakin’ Andrews over the coals,” he drawled. “A valet of the first water does not allow his employer to appear in a jacket decorated with lint. Not done, Miss Verving. Not ton at all.”
Cecily was astonished to note that he had changed his entire costume and was now attired all in blue. He had on a cobalt-blue coat, cut back to form a square, a waistcoat with pale blue stripes, and breeches of the same hue. He wore stockings patterned with blue clocks and shoes that were almost blinding in their polish.
Effete, condescending, redolent with musk and inherited wealth, the duke’s son padded down the stairs. Watching him, Cecily found herself tallying the cost of his coat. The realization that this garment would probably feed a family for a month made her look at Lord Brandon with even more disapproval.
“This morning Lady M. is breakfastin’ in the periwinkle room,” his lordship informed her. “Usually she favors the marigold room. Luckily Andrews discovered the switch at the last moment, or there’d have been the devil to pay.”
“I do not understand.”
“Every room in the house is named for a flower and is decorated in that blossom’s color. I was dressed for the marigold room. ’Pon my honor, it’s deucedly inconvenient to change on a moment’s notice, especially when a man’s as hungry as I am.”
Cecily stopped dead in her tracks and stared hard at him. “Do not tell me that you change clothes each time you enter a different room in this house!”
Lord Brandon raised his quizzing glass. His magnified eye regarded her as though she were some interesting species of insect. “Madam,” he intoned, “I shudder to think what would happen if I was so unwise as to wear—orange, say—in the fuchsia room. Enough to bring on a bilious attack, ’pon my honor. My friends would think me a proper cake, and I wouldn’t blame ’em.”
Cecily herself thought several things, but fortunately there was no time to voice her thoughts, for they were entering a room that was furnished in various colors of blue. Everything from the furniture to the draperies and the watercolors on the wall was done in light and dark tones of blue. The sideboard against a wall papered with blue hyacinths was set with several covered dishes. A round table, covered in pale blue lace and set with Limoges china of an azure tint, was set up in the center of the room.
No one was sitting at the table. “Lady M. is not yet with us, I see,” Lord Brandon said as he sauntered toward the sideboard. “I assure you she wouldn’t want us to stand on ceremony. Now, let me see if I can guess what is here. Kidneys? a brace of grouse cooked to a turn?”
Almost quivering with anticipation, Lord Brandon raised the lids, stared for a moment, then exclaimed in revulsion. “The cursed thing’s empty,” he cried.
“I know it is.” Lady Marcham had glided silently into the room. She wore a large apron tied around the waist of her deep green cambric morning dress and had a smudge of flour on her nose. “All the dishes are empty, I am afraid. We have just lost our cook.”
Lord Brandon whipped up his quizzing glass. “What do you mean, lost her?”
Lady Marcham sighed.
“You mean she’s left you? But why? Mrs. Horrifant was devoted to you. She spent years in your kitchen.”
“Love,” Lady Marcham said succinctly, and Lord Brandon professed that he saw no connection between Cupid’s darts and a cook who did a bunk before breakfast.
“Didn’t she think to give you notice, ma’am?” he demanded.
Instead of answering Lord Brandon, Lady Marcham smiled at Cecily. “Yes, my dear,” she said, “I agree with you. Trevor only thinks of his stomach and his clothes. It is a reprehensible trait, and you are right to want to box his ears.”
Cecily, whose mind had been indeed forming this scenario, could only stare at her grandaunt, who sank down into a chair and commenced fanning herself with a napkin. “It really is too bad. Apparently Mrs. Horrifant conceived a tendre for Lord Kildyce’s butler. Since Kildyce removed to Suffolk, she has been desolate. Then, a letter arrived yesterday, and Grigg surmises that this fellow made Mrs. Horrifant an offer of marriage through the mails.”
Just then the gray-haired butler stalked into the room bearing a tureen, which he set down on the sideboard. Lord Brandon hastily uncovered this receptacle and declaimed, “Ah, eggs and kidneys. Just the thing when a man’s feelin’ faint.”
He heaped his plate, brought it to the table, swallowed a mouthful, and promptly choked.
“I am afraid that I have forgotten the art of cooking,” Lady Marcham apologized. “Did I put in a pinch too much pepper? Or it might be the nasturtium leaves I added at the last moment. But heart up, Trevor,” she added as Lord Brandon turned pale, “I will advertise for another cook immediately.”
“But that might take days!”
“My new chambermaid’s cousin has done some cooking and can manage plain fare. I was going to send Gwendolyn to the village to bring the woman to Marcham Place, but the foolish girl was too upset. It seems as tho
ugh Colonel Howard’s so-called Riders were racketing about last night and interfered with her brother.” Lady Marcham frowned as she continued, “Really, the colonel is becoming too officious by half. His Riders accused Gwendolyn’s brother and some other young men of being smugglers.”
As if he had not heard one word, Lord Brandon mourned, “Weeks—perhaps months. Lady M., we need a cook now.”
Cecily decided that it was time to intervene. “One of the people I rode down with was a Mrs. Horris. She said that she used to cook for Lady Maples.”
Lady Marcham’s expression brightened. “Do you know if this good woman is the same Emma Horris who used to live in Wickart-on-Sea?”
Before Cecily could reply, Lord Brandon cried, “Lady M., this is the hand of Providence.”
Dramatically he shrouded his plate with his napkin and rose to his feet. “Breakfast is dead, but there is hope for luncheon. Miss Verving, will you lead the expedition in search of Mrs. Horris?”
Ignoring him, Cecily turned to her grandaunt. “I cannot vouch for Mrs. Horris’s skill, Aunt Emerald. She only said she cooked for Lady Maples.”
“If it is the same Emma Horris that I recollect from my salad days, she is a perfectly good cook.” Lady Marcham lowered her voice as Lord Brandon left the room and began to call out orders for the trap to be brought around to the door. “I would consider it a favor if you did go with Trevor, my dear. He is bound to make a mull of things if he is left alone, and we do need a cook.”
“Come, ma’am—come immediately.” Showing much more energy than Cecily would have believed possible, Lord Brandon fairly skipped back to the breakfast table, caught Cecily by the elbows, and propelled her into the hall. Within five minutes he had summoned his valet, refused several hats before settling on a curly beaver, and selected a cane that matched his attire. Then, while Cecily was still tying the ribbons of her bonnet, he marched her out of the door toward Lady Marcham’s trap.
“Do you drive, ma’am?” he asked. “So much the better. I am not dressed for ridin’. But,” he added resolutely, “I am ready to make any sacrifice in order to acquire a cook.”
“I collect that a cook is of the same importance as your complexion,” Cecily remarked, but her sarcasm was wasted on his lordship, who was engaged in parting the tails of his coat preparatory to taking his seat, smoothing the knees of his breeches, settling his cuffs, and adjusting the lapels of his jacket.
“Now,” he said complacently, “we may be off.”
“Thank you,” she murmured.
He flicked his perfumed handkerchief, and the sun glinted on the ring on his hand. Cecily could not help remarking, “You wear an unusual ring, my lord.”
He glanced down at his hand. “This? I bought it in Spain.”
“So anyone with a ring such as yours must have been in Spain,” Cecily mused.
Lord Brandon paused to yawn mightily before replying, “Unless the fellow bought it off someone else—or stole it.”
Cecily did not like this last explanation. She was willing to entertain the possibility that her rescuer could have been a smuggler. She would not believe that he was a common footpad.
Unwilling to dwell on this unpleasant thought, she said, “In your haste, my lord, you seem to be forgetting something. Perhaps Mrs. Horris may not want to go into service.”
“If Lady M. wants her, she’ll come,” was the languorous reply. “You may not know it, Miss Verving, but she’s known as a wise woman hereabouts. No one will run the risk of antagonizin’ her.”
He leaned back in the trap and pulled his curly beaver hat over his eyes. The uncharacteristic energy that he had displayed was gone, and he was once again torpid. Cecily soon forgot about him, and as she drove along the road, which skirted the sea and the Widow’s Rock before turning inland, her thoughts slipped back to the events of last night. Suddenly the noise of pounding hooves brought her to full attention, and the next moment several mounted men came careening around a corner in the road.
They were galloping directly toward her. Cecily shouted a warning, but the riders were going so fast that they hardly seemed to see her, and she had to turn her horses’ heads sharply in order to avoid a collision.
Beside her Lord Brandon stirred awake. “Easy over the pimples, Miss Verving,” he said, yawning.
“Do you know who those people are?” Cecily demanded.
Lord Brandon did not bother to lift his beaver from his eyes. “Colonel Howard’s followers. You recall that Lady M. did say that they’d been botherin’ the housemaid’s brother.”
“What gives them the right to bother anyone or to endanger people on the road?” The fact that her hands were shaking made Cecily even more indignant. “And who, exactly, is this Colonel Howard?” she asked.
“One of Lady M.’s new neighbors. He’s retired from his regiment and as rich as Golden Ball. He loathes civilian life, so he’s found somethin’ military to do.”
Cecily raised her eyebrows. “What could be military about Dorset?”
“Ferretin’ out smugglers. I tell you, Miss Vervant, the good colonel makes life excitin’ for the bored young fellows who call themselves his Riders. And he’s got his tenants on the hop, too. They chase smugglers all up and down the coast.”
As Lord Brandon spoke, they turned a sharp corner and came upon the village proper. Wickart-on-Sea was a small but prosperous-looking place shadowed by overhanging trees. It boasted neatly thatched stone houses and small back gardens riotous with late-summer flowers. In front of one of these houses were several horses and one mounted gentleman, whom Cecily recognized as James Montworthy. The band of gold braid around his arm caught the sun as he turned to look inquiringly at the occupants of the trap.
“Servant, ma’am,” the Corinthian exclaimed. “What brings you here so early?”
“Breakfast,” the duke’s son replied. “This lady’s Miss Verving—”
“Vervain,” Cecily snapped.
“Miss Vervant is Lady M.’s grandniece. She and I are on a mission, ’pon my honor.”
He broke off as a young woman backed out of the hut. “I’ll ’ave the law on you,” she was crying. “Leave my ’usband alone, you slipgibbets. Leave ’im alone, I say!”
As she spoke, two men dressed in workmens’ clothes exited from the cottage. They were dragging a third between them. Behind them came Mrs. Horris.
James’s handsome face had flushed with excitement. “Ready to confess, Horris?” he demanded.
“Wot’s ’e got to confess?” Mrs. Horris demanded. Her gray hair was disheveled, and her round face was quivering with distress. “My son hain’t done nofink, sir.”
Ignoring her, Montworthy said, “Horris, you was seen prowling about Robin’s Cove last night. What were you doing there?” There was no answer. “Answer, you damned idiot.”
Lord Brandon raised his head and murmured, “Language, old boy. Ladies present.”
“Beg pardon, ma’am. Now, Horris, this is your last chance to open your budget. Otherwise, you’re going to the colonel for questioning.”
At this the young woman began to sob, and Cecily rose in the trap to exclaim, “Mr. Montworthy, what right do you have to take this man anywhere?”
Taking courage from this unexpected support, Mrs. Horris screamed, “You hear that? You let him go, you mawworms, you.”
The men holding Cully Horris glanced uncertainly at Montworthy, who scowled. “See here,” he was beginning, when he was interrupted by Lord Brandon.
“Miss Verving’s right. You can’t haul this man away.”
“Why can’t I? He’s a suspected smuggler.”
Moving with slow precision, Lord Brandon uncoiled himself from his seat in the trap, descended, and began to stroll toward the captive fisherman. “Cully’s no more a smuggler than I am.”
Cecily watched doubt enter Montworthy’s eyes. “You know this fellow?”
“We were boys together.”
Cecily saw a look of contempt flicker in James Montworthy
’s eyes. “Next,” he all but sneered, “you’ll tell me you were friends.”
“But of course we were. Cully and I used to climb the Widow’s Rock on a summer’s night. Remember how we used to lie in wait for the ghost, Cully?”
A faint grin touched the stocky young fisherman’s lips. “I recall, Master Trevor.”
“What I remember most is those gooseberry tarts you made for us, Mrs. Horris,” Lord Brandon continued. His boredom had once again been replaced by enthusiasm, and he bowed so deeply that his corset creaked. “This is too good to be true, ’pon my honor. Here you are, and here we are. You are an angel in our hour of need.”
Mrs. Horris looked blank. “N-need, sir?”
“For a cook, ma’am. The old one did a bolt and loped off with a butler. I hope you’ll do me the honor of accompanyin’ me back to Marcham Place as Lady M.’s new cook.”
The red had slowly begun to recede from Mrs. Horris’s face. Now she looked ready to faint. “You mean—cook for ’er ladyship?” she gasped. “Ooh, I never could. I’m not near good henough.”
“On the contrary, you’re vastly qualified. Memories of those gooseberry tarts sustained me through many tryin’ times, ’pon my honor. You’ll come, won’t you, ma’am?”
Mrs. Horris looked helplessly at her son, then murmured an affirmative.
“Wonderful! First rate! Get your things together, ma’am, and Cully will bring you to Marcham Place instanter.”
Montworthy growled, “I say, Brandon, you can’t walk off with this man. The colonel wants him for questioning.”
“And Lady M. wants her cook. Lady M. wouldn’t take kindly to your arrestin’ her cook’s son, Montworthy. She takes care of her people—as do I.”
For a moment there had been a note of something very much like command in Brandon’s die-away drawl, and Montworthy spoke in a less certain voice. “I don’t want to inconvenience Lady Marcham. She’s the pater’s neighbor, ain’t she? But the colonel—”
“Bit of a martinet—thinks he’s still followin’ the drum. I know all about it.” Lord Brandon stepped past Cully Horris’s guards and put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Tell Howard that I’m takin’ responsibility for Cully, here. And if he wants to question me, he’ll know where to find me.”