by Rebecca Ward
Bewildered but willing to please, Delinda obeyed. Cecily walked around her critically. “Will you unpin your hair, Delinda?” she then asked.
Once more Delinda did as she was told. When the pins were removed, a quantity of pale gold hair came tumbling down, and Cecily exclaimed, “Your hair is beautiful. Why do you crimp it into curls or confine it to that horrid net?”
“It is the fashion,” Delinda protested.
“Fashion must wait upon the woman and not the other way around. Oh, Delinda, your eyes are lovely, too, and you have a pretty mouth. The clothes are wrong, that is all.”
Delinda looked wonderingly at herself in the glass. Her mother had died very early, and no one else had thought to compliment her. “I do not care for them myself. I should not say that, really—they are very expensive clothes,” she murmured guiltily. “Aunt Jane Howard in London picks them out for me—so kind of her, I am sure—when we go to town for the season. Papa says she has superior taste.”
If Aunt Jane Howard was anything like the colonel, she must bully Delinda, too. “I am sure she means for the best,” Cecily said diplomatically, “but the style she chooses is too old for you.”
She went to her armoire and drew out an old dress of hers. It was a thrice-turned damask the color of forget-me-nots. “See how this shade brings out the color of your eyes?” Cecily asked.
Delinda held the dress up to her neck. “I never thought to wear this color before,” she murmured. “Aunt Jane Howard says pastel colors are suitable for me, that I have no town bronze and no sense of style.”
Cecily repressed many things she would have liked to say about Delinda’s aunt. “I was more fortunate than you,” she said instead. “Even after my mother died, I had an old nurse who was an expert seamstress. She taught me a great deal. See, I will explain what I mean.”
She drew some sketches, illustrating that clothes with fuller skirts and different necklines were more flattering and that gloves worn to the elbow could disguise thin arms. Next she called upon Mary to dress Delinda’s hair.
Like one bemused, Delinda watched herself being transformed. “I do not look the same,” she whispered. “I look—oh, do you think you can teach my abigail how to dress hair like this, Mary?”
“Sure and I don’t see why I couldn’t,” Mary replied good-naturedly. “ ’Tis beautiful hair, you have, ma’am, like moonbeams and mist. You look as radiant as Queen Mab herself.”
Intoxicated with these compliments, Delinda did look radiant. “There is a dressmaker in the village,” she said eagerly. “Aunt Jane Howard would say that she is provincial, but perhaps—is it possible that you would go there with me, Cecily?”
“Of course I will come.” Cecily was almost as delighted as Delinda. “We must have you looking magnificent on the night of the fireworks,” she added.
Some of the joy in Delinda’s eyes dimmed. “The night of the fireworks,” she repeated. “Cecily, there is something I must tell you. Alone.”
Wondering at her mysterious tone, Cecily dismissed Mary. “One good turn deserves another,” Delinda then said. “I could not help but notice that there is a—a friendship between you and Lord Brandon.”
Something deep within Cecily grew suddenly tense. “I would hardly call it that,” she parried.
Delinda looked flustered. “Forgive me if I spoke out of turn, but you see, Papa—you know he is determined to stamp out smuggling in Dorset—has suspicions that Lord Brandon is . . . is somehow involved with the smugglers. Do not eat me, Cecily, but that is what he thinks. He has never liked Lord Brandon, and since Linus Harding was injured, his dislike has become hatred. Cecily, why should Papa invite a man he hates to his house?”
It took an effort to smile and say, “Do you stand there and tell me that the colonel is setting a trap for Lord Brandon?”
“Of course I do not know for sure—Papa would hardly confide in me—but I have overheard him telling Mr. Montworthy that his net is closing about the smugglers and their leader. He keeps strict watch over Robin’s Cove. Perhaps I should not have spoken, but you are my friend—”
Looking distressed, Delinda broke off. Cecily hugged her, told her she was a pea-goose, and that the only one to be trapped was likely to be James Montworthy. “When he sees you transformed, I am persuaded he will be completely dazzled,” she said, laughing.
But laughter died as soon as Delinda had gone, and like a pack of hungry wolves, worries began to crowd Cecily’s mind. If Delinda guessed right, Lord Brandon could be accused—and arrested—at any moment.
I must warn Aunt Emerald, Cecily thought.
But when she returned to the dining room, Grigg informed her that the Montworthys and Captain Jermayne had departed. Moreover, her ladyship, along with Lord Brandon, had driven into the village to see how Linus Harding fared. “Though,” the butler added, “I make bold to say that his lordship did not seem to care for the idea. He protested that it would surely rain.”
As she listened to Grigg, Cecily realized that this was a heaven-sent opportunity. She could at last explore the Haunted Woods with no fear of discovery.
“I am persuaded that Lord Brandon is right,” she said. “I must finish my walk before it starts to rain.”
Outside, the skies were still lowering, and the wind had become brisk. Cecily walked swiftly in the direction of the herb garden. There she paused, only to make sure that she was not being observed, before slipping past the statue of Ceres and into the woods.
Though not at all fanciful, Cecily had to admit that the place had an unusual atmosphere. The breeze had fallen off, and the intertwined trees and bushes seemed to press closer as she walked down the path toward the tumbledown groundkeeper’s cottage, where the path ended in a dense thicket of alder trees.
“So now what do I do?” she mused.
Her words ended in a little shriek as something crashed through the thicket toward her. Cecily would have run for her life, but her legs seemed to have gone to jelly. Then she saw Archimedes sitting in the branches of the nearest alder tree, His tail was lashing, his one fang gleaming dangerously.
“You have very near frightened me to death,” Cecily scolded. “Have you not caused enough trouble for one day? Come here, sir.”
Ignoring her, the cat attempted to leap from one branch to the other. He almost missed, scrabbled wildly for a claw-hold, and hung on. Then, to Cecily’s astonishment, the entire tree to which he was clinging began to collapse sideways.
She went over to examine it and saw that the tree had no root. It had been cut down and stuck into the ground. Judging from the sap that still oozed, it had been cut recently. Cecily tugged sharply at another alder and felt this tree shift slightly. It, too, had no root.
“So,” she murmured, “now we will see what his lordship is hiding.”
Through the gap that the downed alder had left, she could see the woodland path continue and wind through the trees. Cecily was preparing to step through the opening when she heard footsteps coming toward her.
Lord Brandon! Cecily thought as she hastened to replant the alder tree, but it was not Brandon who appeared on the path but Dickinson. The young underfootman was apparently in a great hurry, for he was almost running.
“What are you doing here?” Cecily demanded.
Dickinson saw her, gaped, and went pale. “M-miss Vervain,” he stammered.
Then, to Cecily’s astonishment, he fell on his knees in the mud and clasped his hands imploringly. “Don’t tell Mr. Grigg on me,” he begged. “If ’er leddyship knew I was ’ere, I’d be turned off without no character.”
Sternly Cecily repeated, “What are you doing here?”
“I were meeting someone,” Dickinson muttered sullenly.
Light dawned. “But Mary is terrified of the woods,” Cecily protested.
“That were why.” Dickinson hung his head as he confessed, “We thought—being as she’s scared an’ all—it would be the last place people’ud think to look for us.”
It was not up to her
to reprimand Aunt Emerald’s servants. Briskly Cecily said, “It were best that you attend to your duties in the future. Get up and go back to the house.”
The young man rose and hastened away. As he went, he kept looking back at Cecily as though he were afraid she would change her mind. Something in his furtive manner touched upon a memory, and she realized that it had been Dickinson who had followed Lord Brandon into the woods on the night of Sir Carolus’s party.
Was Dickinson a smuggler, too, and in league with the duke’s son? For a moment Cecily considered asking Mary but rejected that thought. She doubted if the red-headed abigail knew anything, and even if she did, she would not betray her sweetheart.
Perhaps there were answers on the other side of the false hedge. Once more Cecily parted the alder branches.
“Miss Vervain?”
Grigg was standing behind her, an open umbrella in his hand. “It has begun to rain,” he explained.
“That is very kind.” While endeavoring to quieten her pounding heart, Cecily looked hard at the elderly servant. Grigg had seen her about to part the alders and step onto the path beyond, but he had also been in her aunt’s employ for many years. Surely he could be trusted.
“I have discovered something very odd,” she told him. “See here—these alders are not really trees. They have been placed here to conceal this path.”
To her surprise she saw that a pale smile had crossed Grigg’s lips. “Begging your pardon, ma’am,” he said, “you have stumbled on a fairy fence.” Seeing that Cecily looked bewildered, he explained, “The villagers believe that alder branches cut and placed in the ground serve to keep the little people penned up in these woods. I myself,” he added hastily, “do not believe in such superstitious nonsense, but the villagers do.”
Feeling somewhat foolish, Cecily returned to the house. I am becoming as bad as Colonel Howard and soon will see smugglers under every rock and tree, she told herself. And yet—
And yet she could not quite accept Grigg’s explanation for the false hedge. It were best, Cecily decided, to tell Aunt Emerald the whole. What her grandaunt did with the information was up to her.
Cecily waited anxiously for Lady Marcham to return from the village, but her waiting was in vain. Her aunt returned too late even to change her clothes for dinner, and once at table, Lord Brandon would not let them have a moment alone. Later, when they left him to his port, Grigg requested a private conference with his mistress about domestic matters, and once more Cecily could not speak.
She prowled about the door of the periwinkle room where Grigg and her ladyship were conducting their interview, and as soon as the butler had exited, she hurried inside the room and said, “Aunt Emerald, I must speak with you. I suspect that Lord Brandon is in league with the smugglers.”
Her only answer was a soft snore. Apparently worn out by her long day, Lady Marcham had fallen fast asleep.
So the news would have to wait till morning, Cecily told herself. There was nothing for it but to go to bed, but she felt far too restless to sleep. She dismissed Mary and, instead of undressing, paced her chamber while trying to decide what she should do. “I should have spoken earlier,” she told Archimedes, who lay sleepily by the hearth. “I should not have waited for proof. I will tell her tomorrow—but tomorrow might be too late.”
She walked to her window, opened it, and leaned out to gaze toward the woods. The afternoon’s rain had cleared the air, and the night was fine and cool. A sickle moon, fluttering between ragged clouds, threw shadows everywhere. And there by the japonica bushes was . . . no—yes!—the shadow of a man striding toward the herb garden.
If she followed Lord Brandon now, she would catch him dead to rights. Cecily paused only long enough to reach for her shawl before she slipped down the stairs and out of the door.
The herb garden was deserted and dark, the woods even darker, but when she reached the groundkeeper’s cottage, she could see that one of the alder trees had been taken down.
Beyond the false hedge lay a narrow path. Not pausing to consider the risk she was taking, Cicely stepped through the opening and continued down the path.
As she walked along, the path grew broader and the sound of the sea intensified. Then, above the mutter of the waves, she heard Lord Brandon say, “At the dark of the moon, then.”
Cecily stopped where she was and listened intently but heard no answer save an unintelligible murmuring. Cautiously she edged closer. Now the voices were louder and more distinct, and the path broadened into a crossroads. Here a group of men were grouped together.
“Are you sure that it’s safe to land?” one of these shadowy men was asking.
His intonation sounded odd, but before Cecily could decide why, Lord Brandon replied. “Yes. My men will keep Howard busy, don’t fear. It’ll be safe for our purposes, Major.”
“I hope you understand our concern, my lord,” the other man said. “After all, this isn’t Boston harbor. My men and I are a long way from home.”
With difficulty Cecily bit back a cry of horror. No wonder the man’s accent had sounded different. He was an American!
She had suspected that Lord Brandon was a smuggler, but the reality was much worse. She now had proof that he was a traitor to his country.
Chapter Nine
Treason.
Cecily felt as though a tight band had been clamped around her chest. Not only was Lord Brandon playing for much more desperate stakes than she had ever imagined but she herself was in danger. She must get back to the house without being seen. But as she stepped backward, her foot crunched down on a twig.
“What was that?” she heard Brandon exclaim.
In the silence that followed, Cecily was sure that the listening men could hear her heart pounding. She held her breath until the American said, “I don’t hear anything.”
“Probably a rabbit or a deer. Major, nothing will interfere with our plans. Lie off the coast and wait for my signal.”
The assurance in Lord Brandon’s voice made Cecily’s skin crawl. Numb with disgust and horror, she watched the traitor shake hands with the American. There was the sound of receding footsteps, a swish of underbrush, and then silence.
For a long moment Lord Brandon stood listening to the silence. Then he began to walk back along the path, and Cecily held her breath. She closed her eyes and willed herself not to panic as he passed within a few feet of her. He was going away. She was safe.
A hand covered her mouth, her head was twisted back. “Don’t make a sound,” a hard voice warned her.
She could not have made a sound if she had wanted to. She could not even catch her breath. “Let’s have a look at you,” Lord Brandon said. He pushed her ahead of him into the crossroads. There the sickle moon lit her face, and he exclaimed, “Good God.”
He let go of her and stepped back to frown down at her. “I should have known that it was you,” Lord Brandon sighed.
“How could you betray your country?” she flung at him.
“I’m no traitor.”
“Of course you would say that. You are a liar as well, Lord Brandon.”
By the moonlight she could see that he had turned pale. “Look into my eyes, and tell me if I lie.”
He caught her by the shoulders, but she turned her head defiantly away. “Celia,” Lord Brandon said, “look at me.”
Cecily’s will crumbled. As though obeying an irresistible force, her eyes met his. Though every atom of reason in her brain shouted that Lord Brandon was a turncoat, a sixth sense whispered that his were the most honest eyes she had ever seen.
“Well?” he snapped, “Do you think me a liar and a knave? If you do, you’d better hand me over to the colonel and his brave Riders. Montworthy would enjoy taking me prisoner. Or you could call the watch.”
Cecily drew a breath that broke on a sob. “Why are you doing this?”
Her tears were his undoing. Brandon could endure her anger and scorn, but he had no weapons against her pain. The thought that he had red
uced her proud spirit to tears was unbearable. Without stopping to think of the consequences, he took her in his arms.
As he held her close against him, Cecily felt as though everything hurtful or sad in the world had vanished forever. She was in Trevor’s arms—she was where she had longed to be all this long time. Dazzled with unreasoning joy, Cecily lifted her mouth for his kiss.
The taste of her lips rekindled a slow-burning fire in him, and the flame that had sprung to life almost from the first moment of their meeting blazed up. She was unique, Brandon thought disjointedly, a woman of spirit and sweetness. For such a woman, a man might give up everything he had held dear.
All conscious thought had long fled from Cecily’s mind, but there was knowledge that went much deeper than reason or logic. And that knowledge told her that she was in love with Lord Brandon.
That she had found him in treasonous parlay did not matter. That he could be arrested at any moment no longer concerned her. What was important was that they were together at that moment.
They stayed fused together until the air around them seemed to singe. Then, finally, they drew apart and looked at each other in dazed wonder. “Oh, Celia,” Lord Brandon whispered. “Do you know what you have done to me?”
He saw her blink hard, saw that apprehension and fear were returning to shadow her eyes. “I’m no traitor, nor am I a smuggler,” he told her sternly. “In your heart you know it.”
And she did. Though she did not know how or why, Cecily felt sure that he spoke the truth. Perhaps it was because Lord Brandon had saved her from the Widow’s Rock. Perhaps it was because he had always been there when she needed him, or because he made her laugh, or because when she was in his arms, the world could tumble into blue ruin for all she cared.
“Besides,” he pointed out, “Archimedes trusts me.”
“There is that,” she agreed.
His firm mouth curved into a singularly sweet smile, and Cecily could not resist reaching out to caress his hard cheek. He turned to kiss her palm, and the warmth of his mouth seemed to travel through her skin and bones and curve about her heart.