by Sandra Heath
As Lord Benjamin’s full lips pressed defiantly together. Bodkin pointed up at the eager bees. “Tell me, or it will be the worst for you,” he warned, then gave a brief whistle. A solitary bee flew down and perched on the end of his lordship’s nose. Lord Benjamin’s eyes almost crossed as he tried to focus on it. Perspiration ran down his forehead, and he began to tremble from head to toe. Like the jelly at the review, Polly thought.
Bodkin gave him one last chance. “Tell me what I want to know, Beddem.”
The bee buzzed on Lord Benjamin’s nose and wriggled its abdomen to show how ready it was to sting. Lord Benjamin capitulated. “The belt is inside my costume!” he cried. “Now get this bee off me!”
Bodkin grinned, whistled again, and the bee flew back to join the rest of the swarm. Bodkin then gave a longer whistle, and with a loud parting buzz, they flew away into the night. By dawn they would be home in their hives at Horditall.
The brownies set about divesting Lord Benjamin of his costume. They ripped the seams, showing no consideration at all as they pulled and tugged. In moments it lay in red tatters on the towpath, and the second son of the Duke of Lawless was left in only his unmentionables. With a triumphant whoop, Bodkin held up the precious belt. Nutmeg would soon be safe in his arms again! He danced a jig on the towpath, so happy that he couldn’t speak.
His joy was temporarily halted by Polly’s anxiety as she looked down at Lord Benjamin. “Where is my uncle?” she demanded.
“I caught him searching my room, so I tied him up and left him on my bed.”
“He’s an old man ... if you’ve hurt him—”
“You only have to untie him.”
Polly breathed out with relief, and Dominic took her hand, squeezing it gently.
Ragwort nodded at the other brownies, and they bundled Lord Benjamin back into the boat and pushed it out onto the water. Bound with his own rope, he could only lie there. He knew it was unlikely that he’d be found before daylight, and he could only hope the rest of the night wouldn’t get too cold. His plans were in as many tatters as his costume, and both prospective fortunes had slipped through his podgy fingers. The duns would get him now, and before long he’d be languishing in jail. He gave a huge, resigned sigh. Plague take all brownies. And Polly Peach!
On the towpath, he was already forgotten. Bodkin recovered his voice. “Come on, let’s free Nutmeg!” he yelled, and rushed up the steps, followed by all the others.
Polly and Dominic remained on the towpath, except for the jack-o’-lantern, of course. Its candlelight swayed gently, casting a soft glow to everything as Dominic pulled Polly close to kiss her forehead. Then he gazed into her eyes. “I know you say it doesn’t matter now, but my conscience is still great. I shouldn’t have left you, no matter how urgent Caraway told me it was.”
“Dominic—”
“I might have lost you tonight!” he broke in, closing his eyes with emotion. “I could not have lived with myself if any harm had befallen you because of my idiocy.”
“If you insist on blaming yourself for your part, then I must take even more of the blame for being so foolish as to let him bring me here. All’s well now, and that’s what really matters.” Suddenly she thought of the celebrations. “Let’s see what’s happening,” she said, and gathered her skirts to hasten up the steps.
Dominic followed, and together they hurried toward the temple, from where they could see everything in the gardens. The fireworks were over, and the bonfire had begun to collapse now, but the flames still leaped high. The crowd—what was left of it, for most had fled for home, hotel, inn, or lodging—was now gathered quietly in the light of the bonfire. The carefully prepared supper had barely been touched, but the punch bowls were nearly empty as rattled nerves were steadied, then steadied again. The trees and shrubs still twinkled with little jack-o’-lanterns, and the hotel orchestra had found the spirit to play again. Sweet notes drifted through the night, like a soothing lullaby.
Dominic gave a low laugh. “I think this Halloween will go down in history as the night Bath picked up its genteel petticoats and had the vapors,” he murmured.
“Such awful mayhem, and all because of Bodkin,” Polly said.
He nodded. “Yes. I sincerely hope he finds Nutmeg now that he has the belt, for I don’t think my fragile constitution is up to any more of this.”
“Nor mine.”
Dominic watched the gardens again, and pointed suddenly. “Look, there’s Harry. Who’s he putting a blanket around? Why, I believe it’s Georgiana!”
“Yes, it is. And how very wet she is,” Polly observed with undisguised relish, for Diana the Huntress had become Diana the Drenched. “What on earth happened to her?”
“Well, it’s a tale that’s bound to please you,” Dominic replied, and told her about the bees.
Polly giggled and clapped her hands. “Oh, how wonderful. I wish I’d seen it. What a pity she didn’t get a single sting.”
“What a very unsympathetic soul you are. Miss Peach,” he murmured.
She gave him a look. “If you defend her, I shall never speak to you again.”
“One cannot defend the indefensible,” he said softly, and pulled her close once more.
* * * *
The wedding of Miss Polly Peach and Sir Dominic Fortune took place two days later by special license. Harry Dashingham was the best man, and Hordwell proudly gave his niece away. The occasion passed without Bath society realizing, because the monde had too much else to rattle about, what with the review, the ball, and now the shambles of Sydney Gardens. Newspapers, drawing rooms, hotels, and Pump Room rang with the shocking events, although everyone was very careful not to mention them in the hearing of the Duke and Duchess of York. The duchess was now said to be so prostrate with shock that she would have to take the cure in its most strict and arduous form, and the duke was rumored to be so angry about being elbowed aside by Georgiana that he saw to it she would in future be banned from every royal function. The Marquess of Hightower proved to be no St. George to this particular damsel in distress. He had fallen quite out of love with her, and was now comforting himself in the company of Lady Margaret Danety-Sprigg-Muslyn, a rather pretty but empty-headed creature who was probably perfect for him.
Lord Benjamin was the object of much ridicule for having been found virtually in his birthday suit, and ever afterward was to be known as Birthday Ben. Not that he was around to hear his new nickname, for the duns had swiftly seen to his arrest, and by the time Polly and Dominic said their vows, he was already languishing in a Bath bridewell. The name of Hordwell Horditall figured high upon his long list of creditors.
On the day after Halloween, the page of Nostradamus arrived by letter carrier, and Ragwort burned it immediately. The vigilant brownie had been awaiting the post every day, and the moment something arrived that had been posted in France, he knew what it must be. As the sheet of paper for which Lord Benjamin had paid so much went up in flames. Ragwort shuddered to think what might have happened to Nutmeg had it arrived a few days earlier.
Hordwell was delighted with the outcome of everything. His feathers had been considerably ruffled by his ignominious imprisonment on Lord Benjamin’s bed, but a decanter or so of good cognac had put him in the happiest of glows, albeit with the promise of a rotten head come the morning. He quickly left 1 Royal Crescent and joined Polly at the Sydney Hotel, where a second room had conveniently become available. A few discreet inquiries soon elicited the information that Lord Benjamin had indeed been lying about his elder brother’s supposed disinheritance, and Hordwell regarded Dominic as an excellent consolation prize, because his wealth—if not his title—was greater than the duke’s. Polly’s uncle was satisfied that her husband was a most excellent and worthy fellow; indeed to hear him speak of his new nephew-in-law was to wonder if Dominic was a blend of King Arthur and the Archangel Gabriel! From the Sydney Hotel, he went to Dominic’s residence on Royal Crescent, where his happiness was completed by the safe return of his va
luables.
Nutmeg had been rescued within minutes of the belt’s recovery; indeed she’d been waiting on the doorstep on Halloween, when all the victorious brownies, with Bodkin in the lead, had poured along Royal Crescent. She joyfully consented to marry him, and Caraway so forgave Ragwort that she proposed to him. As a result, on the day that Polly and Dominic married, there was also a double brownie ceremony beneath the mulberry tree in Dominic’s garden.
The pumpkin jack-o’-lantern had been rescued from the towpath and had pride of place at the brownie nuptials, serving as the altar upon which the four tiny wedding bands were placed. As a wedding present for them, Dominic hired Zuder’s shop for the night, and every brownie in Bath was invited to the feast. Come the morning there wasn’t a single item of confectionery left. Crumbs remained, of course, heaps of them, and spilled honey, smears of cream, blobs of jelly, and numerous other lamentable examples of how brownies should not behave, but it had to be said that a good time was certainly had by one and all.
While the Zuder’s party was in full swing, Polly and Dominic slipped between the sheets as man and wife. She lay back, her golden hair spilling over the pillow. “Do you think the brownies are having fun?” she asked.
“I don’t know, but we are about to, my lady,” he whispered, leaning over her. “I adore you. Lady Fortune,” he whispered, bending his head to kiss the soft curve of her breast.
“Lady Fortune. How wonderful that sounds ...” she breathed, closing her eyes with pleasure.
Outside in the garden, the pumpkin shone beneath the mulberry tree. Bodkin had crept back from the party to light it. He didn’t care that Halloween was over. It just seemed fitting that tonight of all nights his magic jack-o’-lantern should be lit.
Copyright © 1999 by Sandra Heath
Originally published by Signet (0451198409)
Electronically published in 2008 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.