by Rebecca Ward
“Why?” she pleaded. “Why the disguise, Trevor? I want so much to understand.”
For a moment he hesitated. “I can’t tell you that,” he said at last. “You must take me on trust for a little longer.”
Again he bent his lips to hers. Once more the world seemed to cease its turning. But when this kiss was over, Cecily understood the irony of love. It followed no logic, offered no reason for being. It arrived unheralded, uninvited, even unwanted. And once love had laid siege to the heart, there could be no turning back.
“Say nothing to anyone,” Brandon was telling her.
“Is that a command?”
He smiled at the flash of her old spirit, and his eyes grew tender. “A request. And when the time comes, when everything looks blackest . . .”
He paused, and she prompted, “What then, Trevor?”
He took her hand, kissed the palm again, and folded her fingers over his kiss. “When things look blackest, let your trust be stronger than your doubt.”
“Is there any doubt as to who the best rider is?”
Obediently following Delinda’s pointing finger, Cecily looked down at the gentlemen who were riding their horses up and down the colonel’s riding track. She easily spotted Montworthy, who was dressed in a dove-colored riding coat, skin-tight doeskin breeches, and gleaming Hessian boots that fit his legs to perfection. He looked to be the quintessential Corinthian, as choice a spirit as ever racketed around the streets of London—and he knew it.
Captain Jermayne was also among the gentlemen below, and by contrast to Montworthy appeared almost provincial. He was not wearing regimentals today, and in his drab black coat, tan breeches and beaver hat, he looked unassuming and rather ordinary. But Cecily had noted that in his unspectacular way the captain was a far better horseman than his swaggering companion.
“To my mind, Mr. Montworthy has carried the day,” Delinda continued dotingly. “What a pity Sir Carolus has the gout and is indisposed—he would have enjoyed seeing his son’s triumph in the races.”
Races for the gentlemen were the colonel’s idea of entertainment for his guests, who had begun to arrive at three o’clock in the afternoon. They had been first greeted by their host, who, in honor of the occasion, had donned the regalia of his former regiment.
The colonel in battle dress complete with medals, sashes, and ceremonial weapons was a formidable sight, and most of his guests felt somewhat dazed as they were escorted to a viewing pavilion. From this vantage place they could watch the more athletic gentlemen compete in feats of riding.
Ladies in their finery and jewels were quick to take their seats, ply their fans, and applaud the competitors. Those gentlemen who did not care to race congregated to drink wine and to discuss the politics of the day.
In that gathering of scarlet regimentals, brilliant silks and satins, saucy bonnets and hats that were all the fashion, Cecily resembled a dove. Her China crepe, trimmed with a double pleating of ribbon, was a somber gray, and her bonnet was trimmed with a single silk rose.
By contrast, Delinda was vividly attired in a cornflower-blue dress of jaconet muslin and a saucy hat decorated with blue ribbons and forget-me-nots. She was stylish and almost pretty, and her eyes were bright and hopeful as she watched Montworthy. Then, catching Cicely’s smile, she blushed and stammered, “But I forget my duties as a hostess—forgive me. You are not eating anything, dear Cecily.”
In truth Cecily had not done more than taste of the ample picnic that the colonel had provided. There were plates of cold chicken sliced thin, lamb cutlets, grouse, pheasant, and ham. There were mountains of pickled crab, pickled mushrooms, crayfish in sauce. The sight of so much food had taken away Cecily’s already feeble appetite.
“And you are pale. Do you feel down pin?” Delinda was asking anxiously.
Since her meeting with Lord Brandon in the woods, Cecily had felt decidedly down pin. In his arms she had thought that no matter what the appearances might be, she believed in him. Now logic and reason had reasserted themselves. Lord Brandon could be toying with the safety of England. How could she be sure that he could be trusted?
Cecily was grateful when Captain Jermayne’s arrival cut short such disquieting thoughts. She gave him a friendly greeting and noted that he flushed when he shook Delinda’s hand.
“Ah, er, Miss Howard,” he stammered. “Your most obedient, ma’am. Look deucedly fine. Blue suits you. By Jove, yes. Mean to say—eh?”
Close up, the rangy young officer looked homelier than ever. His dark hair was windblown, and his scar stood white on his sunburned cheek. The very act of talking to females had apparently discomfited him, and his forehead was beaded with perspiration.
“Deucedly hot,” he mumbled. “Mean to say—yes, hot.”
He was so obviously embarrassed that Delinda felt a stab of sympathy. All her life she had been made to feel inadequate by those around her, and even though she had dressed so carefully today in her new clothes, Montworthy was not even looking her way. All of this disappointment and heartache made her understand how awkward poor Captain Jermayne must feel.
Forgetting her own shyness, she said, “You are a very good rider, Captain. Is yours a cavalry regiment?”
An eager look came into the captain’s eyes. “Kind of you, ma’am. Yes, it is. Nineteenth Mounted Hussars. I’m honored to serve with them. By Jove, yes.” He paused, then made a stupendous effort and added, “Fine picnic, ma’am. All your doing, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Delinda blushed at the compliment and looked down at her feet. The captain, having shot his bolt, lapsed into abashed silence. Cecily said, “I am looking forward to the fireworks, Delinda. I have never seen a grand display by the Brock family before. Have you?”
“No, but I am persuaded it will be very fine—there is to be a fiery spectacle called the Eruption of Mt. Etna. It is said to be superb.” In her enthusiasm Delinda smiled at Captain Jermayne, who became very red in the face. “Even Lord Brandon told me earlier that he is looking forward to the display.”
All afternoon Cecily had avoided looking in Lord Brandon’s direction. She had tried not to think of him. But just the mention of his name had tumbled down her resolutions, and everything rushed back—the night and the whisper of voices, and the terror and the joy. Perhaps, Cecily thought bleakly, Mary was right when she said that there was enchantment in those words.
But there might also be treachery. “The dark of the moon,” Brandon had said, and that night there would be no moon in the sky. Cecily clenched her hands at her sides and gazed full at Lord Brandon.
The duke’s son had dressed entirely in black. He wore a black tailcoat with pockets in the pleats, black corduroy knee breeches, and a waistcoat with black flowers.
In that costume he would easily blend with the shadows. In a few hours he would melt into the moonless night to play his dangerous game. And because of her promise to him she must be part of that game.
She was not sure that she knew all the rules of the game. At times Cecily found herself wondering whether Lord Brandon was merely pretending to care for her. Not once had he spoken of love, and it was possible—even likely—that the duke’s son was carrying his masquerade one step further and buying her silence with his kisses.
As if aware of Cecily’s thoughts, Brandon looked up, and his eyes locked with hers. Trust me, those eyes said.
“My dear?”
Cecily wrenched her eyes away from Lord Brandon and focused on Lady Marcham, who had strolled up to her side. “Look at Delinda and that nice young captain,” her aunt was saying. “They are actually talking together, even though they are both so shy that they can hardly rub two words together. I am persuaded that they enjoy each other’s company.”
She paused and smiled at Cecily. “I have not had the occasion to mention this, but you look lovely today. You remind me of your mother, my dear.”
Cecily’s eyes filled with tears. They annoyed her. She who had never wept through the ordeal of her father’s long il
lness, she who had been dry-eyed when she learned that she was penniless and forced to earn her bread or do without, now seemed ready to weep at the slightest provocation.
“But,” her aunt continued, “you are also troubled. Is Trevor making you unhappy?”
It was difficult to laugh around the knot in her throat, but Cecily managed. “You are a great reader of minds, ma’am, but this time you are far afield. I am not sad at all.”
Lady Marcham did not press the matter. Instead, she put an arm around Cecily’s waist. “You are my only living blood relation. Beyond that I am sure that you know how fond I am of you.”
Once again weak-minded tears gritted in Cecily’s eyes. By keeping her promise to Trevor, she could be endangering this dear, good woman.
“If Trevor has done something to distress you,” Lady Marcham continued, “I beg you will confide in me.”
Did Aunt Emerald suspect that her godson’s disguise hid a different man? For the hundredth time since learning his dark secret, Cecily opened her mouth to tell her grandaunt all she knew. And for the hundredth time the words that would damn Lord Brandon remained unsaid. The promise she had made to him kept her silent.
“To tell the truth,” she hedged, “I am weary of this picnic.”
To her relief Lady Marcham agreed. “I am only staying for Delinda’s sake. All this food and the posturings of that man in his regimentals—really, it is shocking ton. But, Cecily—”
She paused and regarded her grandniece with a look that seemed to read not only her thoughts but all her tangled emotions. “I will give you one piece of advice that has never failed me,” Lady Marcham continued. “In case of a conflict between the mind and the heart, it is wise to listen to the heart. Reason may be clouded, but the heart sees with clear eyes.”
She walked away to chat with Delinda and Captain Jermayne, leaving Cecily feeling drained and oddly weak in the knees. Her head ached, and there was a raw feeling under her breastbone. She wanted nothing more than to be alone in a quiet place, but the noisy picnic dragged on. Her only consolation was that James Montworthy was so involved in showing off his riding skills that she was spared his company.
After a while the races ended, and the gentlemen contestants went off to change before joining the other guests. By the time they returned, night had begun to fall, and the colonel called for attention.
“I have asked you to join me on this occasion for a special reason,” he declaimed. “Some of you know that for the past few months I have been engaged in building a small museum designed to honor English patriots and warriors. If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you what I mean.”
Trailed by his dutiful guests, he led the way down a path edged by ruthlessly pruned bushes, manicured lawns, and a topiary garden that had been planned and planted with geometric exactitude. At the end of this garden stood the summerhouse, which had been enlarged and converted into a square building flanked by marble statues of Mars and Jupiter.
“Here,” declaimed the colonel, “is my small tribute to the arts of war. Enter, my friends.”
Obediently the guests trooped into the building and looked about them at walls hung with portraits of the colonel’s military ancestors. Busts of heroes throughout the ages were prominently displayed, including a life-size statue of the Duke of Wellington. A Latin inscription, etched in the stone lintel, assured everyone that it was sweet and honorable to die for one’s country.
Lord Brandon examined this tag through his quizzing glass. “So,” Cecily heard him drawl, “this is a military museum. Most interestin’ place, ’pon my honor.”
It was also a very depressing place. Cecily pretended to examine a map that detailed one of the colonel’s many campaigns and wished that the dedication of the museum could be soon over. Unfortunately it had just begun. The colonel cleared his throat, welcomed his guests, assured them that he did not mean to keep them long, and launched into a speech that lasted for half an hour.
Hands locked behind his back, booted legs planted wide, and with medals winking on his chest, the colonel remembered generals, brave officers, gallant men. He described how the Prince Regent had pinned one of the medals on his chest. He went into intricate details of how the great Wellington had once confided a secret to him. “He said, ’Howard, I know that I can tell you because you are a man of honor whose word can be trusted.’ And he was right. To this day that secret is safe with me. If I were put to the torture, it would still be safe,” the colonel intoned.
Cecily noted that Lady Marcham wore a glazed expression, and that many of the colonel’s other guests were looking definitely sleepy. Another long-winded story, and she herself might—
“I beg your pardon, Brandon,” the colonel snapped, “am I boring you?”
Caught in midyawn, Lord Brandon protested, “It’s the smell of fresh paint. Paint always makes me yawn.”
The colonel looked about and realized that half his audience was yawning. He therefore gestured to his servants, who began to circulate with trays of crystal goblets full of champagne.
“We will now drink a toast to England,” the colonel announced. “May Britannia ever be great. Long live the king!”
He swallowed his drink at one gulp and hurled his glass to the floor. Montworthy and the colonel’s other Riders immediately followed suit.
“The purpose of this museum is not only to honor our heroes but to remind us that England is the greatest country the world has seen,” the colonel said. “In order to maintain our position of superiority, we must be ready to make sacrifices. We must also escalate our war with the colonials until they are beaten to the knees. War is inevitable, and we must be victorious!”
One of the colonel’s guests, a portly and prosperous-looking baronet, ventured to disagree. “There might yet be a third meeting at Ghent,” he pointed out. “Gambier and Bathurst and William Adams may forge a peace with the Americans. Considering the cost of a war, I hope they do.”
“Tush, man. Isn’t England more important than any trumpery cost?” the colonel demanded scornfully. “We are discussing Britannia’s honor.”
There was a ripple of agreement, mostly from the colonel’s Riders, and the colonel waxed expansive. “After all,” he asked, “what price can we put on honor? Even Lord Brandon must agree with me there.”
All eyes turned to Lord Brandon, who had folded his arms and was leaning back against a marble bust of Lord Nelson. He shrugged and said, “If you say so, Howard.”
“I do say so.” The colonel leaned forward and fixed his protuberant blue eyes on the duke’s son. “Of course you may share the Duke of Pershing’s views and counsel peace at any price.”
Cecily realized that the colonel was attempting to goad Lord Brandon into open disagreement, but Trevor only shrugged. “As Kirkwood pointed out just now, war costs—fifty-seven million pounds it took to pay foreign armies to fight in Europe.” A ripple of amazement filled the military museum, and Lord Brandon added idly, “England has been at war for twenty-one years. Glorious years, of course.”
“Are you mocking me, man?” rasped the colonel.
“ ’Pon my honor, I’d not dream of it.”
Tapping back a yawn, he began to examine a statue that stood nearby. Howard scowled. He suspected that Lord Brandon was deeply involved with the local smugglers and had wanted to anger him into losing his temper and incriminating himself. But his opponent was too crafty to be drawn. He must have patience and bide his time.
He turned his attention to his other guests but not before Cecily had glimpsed the look on his face. Suddenly she could no longer bear to be in the colonel’s company. Careful not to be noticed, Cecily backed out of the colonel’s museum into the moonless night.
There she paused, uncertain. Should she return to the viewing stand? Should she wait for Lady Marcham?
“I wish,” Cecily muttered, “that the sorry night were over.”
“Eh, what’s that?” A startled voice exclaimed beside her.
Cecily peered
into the dark. “Captain Jermayne,” she exclaimed in astonishment. “What are you doing out here? I saw you conversing with Miss Howard and thought you had escorted her to the museum.”
The captain drew a deep breath that was almost a sigh. “Not me, ma’am. She went with Montworthy.”
So Delinda had had her wish. Feeling very sorry for the captain, Cecily held her peace.
“Fine figure of a man, Montworthy. Corinthian. By Jove, yes. Knows how to talk to females. What the hell—I mean, what could I possibly do? I don’t know the first thing about ladies. Especially top guns—I mean, fine ladies like Miss Howard.”
This time the captain’s sigh was clearly audible. “Miss Howard’s not like other fe—ladies. She’s . . . she’s kind and gentle. She doesn’t laugh at a fellow. To give you words with no bark on them, Miss Vervain, she suits me down to the ground. But then, why should she look at me when Montworthy is around?”
He lapsed into morose silence, and Cecily forgot her own troubles to say bracingly, “A handsome profile is not everything, Captain. If I were you, I would go back inside the museum and talk to Delinda.”
The captain looked aghast. “But what if Miss Howard doesn’t want to talk to me?”
“You will never know that unless you try,” Cecily pointed out. “Faint heart never won fair lady, Captain.”
Jermayne considered the truth of this. “Never fought shy in an engagement before,” he said at last. “By Jove, no.” Then he jerked his rangy body to military stiffness, saluted Cecily, and marched back into the colonel’s museum.
Not wishing to meet anyone else, Cecily began to walk away from the museum. She followed the garden path and in the topiary garden found a shadowed seat. It was cool and peaceful, and she sat down and waited there until voices indicated that the colonel’s guests were returning to the viewing pavilion. Among them, Cecily was glad to note, were Captain Jermayne and Delinda walking together.
She saw Lady Marcham pass and was about to get up and join her, when suddenly a shadow loomed between her and the night sky and a familiar voice asked, “All alone in the dark, Miss Vervain?”