Enchanted Rendezvous: A Tangled Hearts Romance

by Rebecca Ward

  “There are no smugglers except in your head,” Lord Brandon said impatiently. “These men are law-abiding Englishmen.”

  “All the time you thought you had Brandon trapped, he had you trapped,” Captain Jermayne exclaimed. “Funny, that. By Jove, yes.”

  “You won’t be harmed,” Brandon went on. “You’ll be detained for a time and then released. Then you’ll return to your homes.”

  “The devil I will!” the colonel spluttered. “I will see you in hell first.”

  He got no further, for now into the lamplit glade walked a tall, thin figure dressed in diaphanous white. Her long fair hair was unbound, and moonlight teased it into an eerie nimbus. She walked hesitantly, looking from side to side as though searching for something—or someone.

  Mary fell to her knees and began to cross herself violently. “Holy saints, shield us,” she wailed. “It’s the Widow’s ghost! It’s herself, come to take one of us to the other world with her!”

  Chapter Twelve

  The sepulchral figure raised its head hopefully and quavered, “Is that you, Mary?”

  Mary’s eyes were as huge as saucers. “Not me,” she wailed. “I won’t go with you.”

  Just then James Montworthy sat up and blinked at the figure in white. He gaped. “What in hell—”

  “Aye, it comes from hell. It’s the Widow’s ghost,” Mary keened.

  James’s jaw was aching, his head was pounding like the devil’s own anvil, and his ears were ringing. There seemed to be a mist before his eyes. The slow-returning memory of being planted a facer by Brandon rankled. It was the last straw to be confronted by a smuggler dressed up as a ghost.

  Drawing his pistol, he threatened, “You in white! Stop or I’ll shoot.”

  Brandon started forward, but Captain Jermayne was swifter. He threw himself between Montworthy’s pistol and the white figure. Cecily cried, “No! Do not shoot—it is Delinda!”

  As her anguished cry echoed through the woods, a second apparition burst onto the scene. Montworthy dropped his pistol and yelled in pain as Archimedes sank his twenty claws and one tooth into his right arm.

  “It’s that witch cat! Run for your lives!” Mrs. Horris shouted.

  She hitched up her skirts and fled but was soon outpaced by Mary. All of Lady Marcham’s servants save Grigg followed, and after that, it was every man for himself. The colonel’s orders and threats could not stop the stampede as his rank and file fairly knocked each other down in their haste to get away. There was a pounding of feet, shouts, curses, and a thudding of frenzied hooves receding into the distance.

  Finally there was silence. Brandon’s forces closed in about the colonel’s depleted band while their leader walked across to James, caught Archimedes by the scruff of the neck, and pried him loose.

  “Are you all right, Miss Howard?” Captain Jermayne was asking anxiously.

  “I do not know—I am so frightened. Why are you all here in Lady Marcham’s woods?” Delinda stammered.

  “What are you doing here?” the colonel thundered.

  Blanching visibly, Delinda hung her head and murmured, “I was only looking for verbena.”

  Brandon carried Archimedes over to Cecily, deposited him in her arms, and whispered, “Is that girl touched in the head?”

  “You are mad,” the colonel shouted. “I will have you packed away to a madhouse.”

  Threateningly he advanced on Delinda, but once again Captain Jermayne stepped between her and peril. “Wouldn’t do to do violence to a lady,” he said mildly.

  Colonel Howard grasped Captain Jermayne’s shoulder, but the younger officer refused to budge.

  “The thing to do is calm down and think it over,” he soothed.

  “I agree,” Pershing said. “Your army seems to have diminished, Howard. What do you say now?”

  “You think that because we are outnumbered, we will surrender to you?” Contempt hardened the colonel’s voice. “I would never dishonor myself by giving in to brigands.”

  The duke looked impatiently at the colonel and at his Riders, who had ranged themselves behind their chief.

  “I am growing weary of this,” he declared. “All of you must leave at once. I want your word that you will not speak of this night to anyone.”

  “One is more than happy to comply,” Sir Carolus chirruped, but his son growled, “Not so fast, Pater. The duke is trying to cover up for his precious son, but it won’t fadge. Something havey-cavey is going on. Mean to know what, give you m’word.”

  He got shakily to his feet, rubbed his jaw, and glared at Lord Brandon, who told the duke, “You’ll have to silence them one way or another, sir.”

  There was an ominous pause during which Sir Carolus looked alarmed, the ladies drew closer together, and the colonel and his followers assumed martial poses. At last the duke barked, “I have no choice but to take you into my confidence, but what I am about to say to you must never be divulged to anyone. Not three hundred yards away—”

  “Is a band of cursed smugglers. I knew it!”

  The duke leveled a withering look on the colonel. “Not three hundred yards away a meeting is being held to end the war between England and America.”

  There was a stunned silence. Then Sir Carolus stammered, “But—but are the peace talks not at Ghent?”

  “On August nineteenth, those talks became hopelessly deadlocked. The Americans were ready to break off negotiations. To forestall an escalation of the war, a plan was devised.”

  Negotiations were undertaken, Pershing said, to invite an American of high rank and honor to England. Here the American delegate would meet with an Englishman of equivalent rank. Between them, it was hoped, they could come to agreements that would then be taken back to the conference table.

  “Do you expect me to believe that?” Colonel Howard sneered. “The Americans would never risk sending their man to England.”

  “There were risks on both sides. We had much to lose in allowing foreign ships to lay anchor off the English coast.” The duke paused. “Also, we had to maintain complete secrecy. Had they known, those in our government opposed to peace would have tried desperate measures to prevent the talks.”

  The colonel looked as though he were about to speak again, but Pershing snapped, “Be silent and do not interrupt me further! The rest is simply told. We chose Dorset as a site for the meeting because Lady Marcham’s late husband was once acquainted with the family of—of the American delegate. And Lady Marcham’s family have also been for years the trusted friends of the gentleman chosen to represent England.”

  The duke’s fierce eyes softened as he bowed to Lady Marcham. “Lady Marcham is a gallant woman,” he said. “She knew there would be danger in agreeing to allow this meeting to take place on her estate, but she accepted the risk. It was her suggestion that the meeting be held in her woods. She reasoned that her own, er, reputation and the locals’ fear of the Haunted Woods would keep people away.”

  The colonel’s Riders looked impressed at this, and Sir Carolus nodded his head several times. “One admits that it makes sense. But, your grace, where does Lord Brandon fit into all of this?”

  “My duty was to coordinate security for the meeting.” Crisply Lord Brandon continued, “As Lady M.’s godson, I had an excuse for a prolonged visit to Dorset. I know the waters hereabouts and could guide the Americans to make landfall at the most unlikely spot possible. Unfortunately I didn’t foresee that Colonel Howard would be a neighbor.”

  The colonel muttered something beneath his breath. “His obsession with smugglers made him ready to suspect any stranger,” Brandon continued. “So I had to play the fool.”

  “You did it exceedingly well,” Captain Jermayne exclaimed. “A proper cake you made of yourself.”

  “I had been away at the wars, so people put the change in me down to war experiences.” Lord Brandon smiled at Cicely. “Most people dismissed me as a fribble.”

  Montworthy burst out, “You mean to tell me that you planned this meet
ing? Next you’ll say that all the smugglers are working for the crown.”

  “Of course they are. These gentlemen served with me on the Peninsula. Others, like Cully Horris, were boyhood friends. Among the servants Grigg was aware of what was happening, and my valet is even now leading a convoy of empty wagons toward the downs.”

  “And of course I guessed,” Captain Jermayne cut in. “I mean to say, a man decorated three times for valor on the Peninsula, a man who saved my life—not likely to become a counter-coxcomb, is he?”

  As Cecily listened, it was as though a complicated tapestry pattern was at last taking shape. Montworthy apparently thought so, too, for he said in an aggrieved tone, “I suppose you think I owe you an apology for the things I said. You won’t get it, give you m’word on’t.”

  “Apology be hanged!” the colonel rumbled. “I do not believe a word of what you have said, your grace. Who is this so-called English delegate? You?”

  The duke strode over to the colonel, and Cecily held her breath. But instead of challenging him to a duel for doubting his word, the tall peer merely said, “Come walk with me, and you will have your answer.”

  The colonel started to gesture his Riders forward, but the duke raised an imperious hand. “You will come alone, colonel.”

  “Might be a trap,” James suggested. He then encountered Brandon’s hard stare and fell silent.

  Momentarily the colonel hesitated. Then he said, “I will see this business through. You gentlemen stay here.”

  Together the duke and Colonel Howard disappeared through the alders. “I do not understand anything,” Delinda said, sighing.

  With a smile Lord Brandon turned to her. “Never mind, ma’am. You’ve done very well. But why were you in Lady M.’s woods at this time of night?”

  Delinda looked flustered. “I was here to gather some herbs. I heard voices—I nearly ran away—and then I recognized Papa’s voice, so I came to see what was happening.” She took a deep breath, then asked plaintively, “Why was Mr. Montworthy about to shoot me?”

  “I suspect that he thought you were a smuggler,” Cecily explained.

  “I still do not understand.” Sadly Delinda looked at James, who was engaged in wiping mud off his coat. “I did not find any verbena, Cecily. Perhaps it was not to be.”

  Captain Jermayne cleared his throat. “I think you were splendid, Miss Howard.”

  “You do?”

  The captain started to speak, blushed, and glanced at Cecily for support. “Absolutely right,” he resumed. “When you came into the glade pretending to be the ghost, I nearly applauded. You did it so well.”

  Delinda blinked and looked at Captain Jermayne as though she were waking from a deep sleep.

  “You came at just the right time. You averted a confrontation. And looked so beautiful. Your hair was like—like a cloud of gold.”

  Delinda’s blush was visible even by lamplight, but her eyes were bright. “It was you who was brave,” she breathed. “Oh, Captain Jermayne, you could have been killed.”

  “For you I would gladly lay down my life. Anytime.” The captain would have said more, but his shyness caught up with him. He attempted to continue, stammered, and got hopelessly tongue-tied.

  Cecily came to the rescue. “It has become very cool,” she said. “Do you not think so, Captain Jermayne? I collect that it will be warmer at Marcham Place.”

  She looked significantly at the captain, who exclaimed, “Eh? By Jove, yes, you’re right. Permit me, Miss Howard, to escort you back to the house.”

  Delinda’s lips curved into a tremulous smile. As she took the captain’s proffered arm and walked away with him, Brandon remarked to Cecily, “Exeunt newfound sweethearts.”

  “I think they will suit famously. Delinda is a dear, and Captain Jermayne is a kind person. And a good friend, too—only think of his pretending to be carried away by his horse so that you would have time to escape the colonel.”

  She broke off as the duke came striding back through the alders. The colonel followed, and Cecily was startled at the change in him. His bombast was gone, he looked ten years older, and he walked as though he were in a dream.

  “Obviously you told him,” Brandon said, and the duke nodded.

  Turning to the colonel he then ordered, “Howard, do your duty!”

  The colonel wiped his damp forehead, then spoke in a voice hoarse with emotion. “I swear,” he said, “that I will never reveal what I have learned this night. Torture will not pry a single word from my lips. As a loyal Englishman and a gentleman, I have sworn it.”

  He turned to his staring followers. “Gentlemen, I require the same oath from you. Whatever you have seen tonight, you will forget. You will never utter a word about this matter again, even among yourselves.”

  Astounded but impressed, all the Riders swore silence. The colonel now saluted the duke. “We are at your disposal, your grace,” he said.

  “Are you so?” The duke’s thin lips twitched into an ironic smile. “In that case—Brandon, what orders do you have for the colonel?”

  “Hoy, see here—” bleated Montworthy, but no one paid attention to him.

  The colonel seemed to be struggling with himself. Then, with the air of one who intends to face a firing squad with dignity, he wheeled about on his boot heels and glared at Lord Brandon. “Sir, your orders?” he barked.

  “Guard the sea road together with my men. Divert my travelers until the American ships are safe at sea,” Brandon said. Then he added quietly, “We haven’t seen eye to eye in the past, Howard, but in this matter we both serve England.”

  Wordlessly the colonel saluted the man he had threatened to jail for smuggling. Then, gesturing to his Riders, he strode out of the glade. “Exeunt the reformed Captain Hackum,” Brandon murmured.

  “Well, Lady Marcham, it seems as if we have carried it off.”

  The duke had strolled over to Lady Marcham, who said heartily, “We have indeed. La, your grace, I vow that it is kind of you to think that I have not changed through the years, but the world has turned several times since we were young. And you are looking tired. Come back to Marcham Place, and I will give you some elderberry wine.”

  The duke looked surprised. “I forget that you are an enchantress, Emerald. Unfortunately I must travel with him and make sure that he returns to London safely.”

  The duke inclined his stately head to kiss Lady Marcham’s hand, then exclaimed, “The devil! What’s this?”

  Something rough and hairy was rubbing against his boot, and a rumbling growl permeated the air. “Miss Vervain’s cat is purring,” Brandon explained. “He’s taken a liking to you.”

  Having apparently reassured himself that the duke was harmless, the cat padded over to Cecily. She bent down to pick him up, but Lady Marcham said, “Leave him, my dear. He has done famously tonight and very probably kept James from shooting Delinda or her nice captain. Archimedes shall follow us back to the house and have a large bowl of milk.”

  Sir Carolus, who had been standing bemused during the past ten minutes, came to life with a jerk. “Milk,” he murmured, “with a little rum, a sprinkle of nutmeg. In short, milk punch. Mrs. Horris can no doubt make a milk punch that will rival the nectar of the gods.”

  He began to trundle away toward Marcham Place, and Lady Marcham followed. Archimedes ran ahead, his tail waving like a victorious banner.

  The Ice Duke watched them go. He then drew a deep breath that might have been a sigh and said, “I must return to the meeting. Miss Vervain, I look forward to our next encounter. Trevor, I leave the rest in your hands.”

  Lord Brandon gave an order. As his men silently melted into the trees, he said to Cecily, “It is near the end of the play. Come with me and see the curtain fall.”

  He offered her his arm, and feeling as though she were not quite awake, she took it. They stepped through the false hedge and followed the path until it broadened into the fork in the road. One side of the fork ran toward the woods. Following the other, th
ey arrived at a clearing. In the center of this clearing stood a cottage.

  A nasal voice demanded, “Who goes thar?” Brandon gave the proper password and was allowed to approach the cottage. Cecily noted that though smoke poured from the chimney and lamps burned at the windows, the well-guarded doors of the cottage were closed. Obviously, the meeting was still in progress.

  One of the men guarding the door now stepped forward and saluted. “Lord Brandon,” he said, “may I inquire who this lady is?”

  By his voice Cecily recognized the American with whom she had heard Brandon conspire. She looked questioningly at Trevor, who said, “Miss Vervain, I beg to present Major Barnaby Simpson from Boston.”

  Cecily found herself looking into bright blue eyes that held both admiration and curiosity. “Honored, ma’am,” he said. “Permit me to say that you are the fairest thing I’ve seen for months.”

  He bowed and went back to his post. “Since he’s been at sea for months, that is hardly a compliment,” Cecily said, laughing.

  “Americans have no sense of style.” Brandon guided Cecily into the shadows of the trees that surrounded the cottage, then stopped to say, “Now, Celia, tell me. Do you see why I had to keep my silence?”

  He was standings so close to her that she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. Cecily stepped back a few paces before replying, “It would have been so much easier if I had known what you were about.”

  “But if you had, we would not have grown to know each other so well.”

  His tone was tender but assured, too, and some note in it seemed to blow the cobwebs and mist away from Cecily’s brain. Gravely she looked up at him and said, “I do not know if I really know you.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean that you have been playing a part, Trevor. In real life you are a duke’s son. You are respected, and perhaps wealthy, too—”

  “Very wealthy,” he agreed. “Brandon’s a rich estate—what of it?”

  “In real life,” Cecily repeated, “we are very different in rank and wealth. Ordinarily we would not have become allies.” No matter how she attempted to keep her voice steady and serious, she could not help a small quiver from entering it. “You see, I have been playing a part, too.”