Dair Devil

by Lucinda Brant

  He joined her by the teapot stand.

  He wasn’t entirely sure how to conduct himself at such a momentous crossroads in their lives. He was as nervous as she was hesitant. In fact, he was so nervous the skin on the back of his neck prickled. He thought for a moment he might lose consciousness. Why did time slow upon such life-altering occasions? It was the same the moment before the infantry drummer set his sticks to the skin of his kettle and started to beat, or the trumpeter sounded his bugle, signal to charge into battle. Terror mixed with the relief of getting on with it, and getting through it, to live another day, sent him at full gallop. But as many times as he had made the charge astride his mount, he had never done this before, and knew he never would again.

  It was only later that night, lying naked under a sheet in the big four-poster bed with the windows thrown open to allow for a cool breeze, both hands under his head, and smiling up into the darkness, that he recalled what he had said, and her response.

  He took hold of Rory’s hands, smiled into her eyes, and gently kissed her forehead. He then let go of her right hand and, still holding the left, went down on bended knee. He looked up into her face and for an instant he smiled. He could see by her expression she had no idea of his intent. That settled his nerves enough for him to say in a steady voice,

  “Rory, I love you. Will you—Will you—Miss Aurora Talbot—consent to marry me?”

  When she merely blinked down at him, as if he had spoken to her in some foreign tongue only known to himself, and touched his bearded cheek, he smiled nervously and turned his head in her hand to kiss her palm. For the second time he was glad he had grown a beard; he knew he was blushing. He rose up off his knee but kept hold of her hand.

  “Rory, I want you to marry me… I have never wanted anything in my life as much as I want you to be my wife, but—but only if you want to…”

  Rory’s blue eyes widened. She clapped a hand to her smile, as if in disbelief and shock at his offer. And then she began to laugh and cry at the same time. Her series of small nods were acceptance enough for him. She threw her arms around his neck and he gathered her into a tight embrace and laughed along with her. She clung to him, murmured that she loved him too and nothing would make her happier than to be his wife. They stayed that way, joyous and reassured, tremors of relief coursing through their bodies, until involuntarily parted when Edith dropped her teacup and it smashed into pieces on the marble tiles.

  After that, time raced forward, and too fast for him to remember all the words spoken and the promises made. It seemed within a blink of an eye of his proposal and her acceptance, he was watching his newly-betrothed go off with her maid in the pony trap back to the Gatehouse Lodge. Two things he did remember: They agreed to keep their betrothal to themselves until Dair formally spoke with Lord Shrewsbury; he would meet her at the jetty in the morning to row her across to Swan Island. As he drifted off to sleep, he couldn’t decide which held more dread for him.

  HE ARRIVED AT the jetty in his shirtsleeves, light linen frock coat slung over a shoulder, to find Rory waiting for him.

  He was late.

  He had risen early, as was his usual practice since his time in the army, and taken breakfast in his rooms to write three letters: One to his father; one to his father’s bankers; and one to his brother Charles. All three letters informed their respective recipients of his betrothal. The first two letters he knew would be delivered without being diverted to Shrewsbury’s secret post office, where all suspect letters were opened, read and expertly resealed, usually with the recipient none the wiser to the trespass. But his letter to Charles, a known traitor, would be delivered to the secret post office. The wax seal with the impression of the Fitzstuart coat of arms left by his gold signet ring would be expertly removed, and the contents of the letter pored over in every detail. Which is why he wrote it in the cipher his brother had used to pass on vital information through the French to the American rebels about English troop numbers and deployment.

  There was nothing traitorous or of interest to the Secret Service in the letter. It simply informed his brother of his betrothal and expressed the wish that under different circumstances he would have greatly desired Charles to bear witness to his nuptials. He hoped his brother and his new wife had settled into their life in Paris, and to expect a wedding present from him soon. He signed off with the firm belief that one day in the not-too-distant future they would be reunited.

  Although the letter’s contents were innocuous and far from traitorous, he knew the double agent within Shrewsbury’s secret service could not take the chance the letter didn’t hide some important piece of information vital to the American war effort. Why else would the Major write to his brother, and in code? Dair hoped mention of a wedding present would be construed as code about the English army’s movements in North America. It was a ruse, and he would wager his future inheritance on the traitor ensuring the letter made its destination without anyone in the secret post office, and most importantly, Shrewsbury, knowing of its existence. Now it remained for him to set the trap and wait for the traitor to walk into it, trip more belike.

  He was convinced the traitor was William Watkins. But proving it would not be easy, and he feared the trap he had set would not be sprung in time for him to avoid the upcoming interview with his cousin the Duchess. His contact in Portugal would not wait forever, and it was vital the man’s identity be confirmed, and only the Duchess could do this. The gentleman could then be given safe passage and immunity to return to England in exchange for evidence and the name of the traitor in Shrewsbury’s midst. The interview, William Watkins, and the gentleman waiting in a Lisbon tavern were forgotten as he caught sight of Rory on the jetty, and he lengthened his stride.

  She was in her stockinged feet, the hem of her light cotton glazed petticoats just skimming her ankles. She wore a matching low-cut short jacket that laced in front, and a light gauze shawl draped across her shoulders and crossed over her breasts for modesty. Her fair hair was in undress, falling forward over her shoulder in one long thick plait that reached to her waist and was tied off with a pink satin ribbon. Both hands gripped the curved handle of a wicker basket that contained a large loaf of bread peeking out from under a linen cloth. There was another larger and heavier basket by a ladder that dropped over the side of the jetty into the water, where a skiff was moored.

  Seeing Dair striding across the lawn, she put the basket at her feet, where her walking stick lay beside her discarded shoes, and waved excitedly. He waved back, face splitting into a grin at her enthusiasm. He was so looking forward to spending the day with her that any nerves he felt at boarding a rowboat on a still lake were pushed back down out of the way. He was determined to row across the lake to Swan Island for her, terrifying childhood memories be damned. And being in charity with the world since she had accepted his proposal of marriage, he was even prepared to accept with equanimity Rory’s maid as chaperone on their adventure. He was surprised then, taking a tentative peek over the side of the jetty, to find the skiff unoccupied.

  “Edith is bedridden with a megrim, so cannot join us,” Rory told him matter-of-factly, and without a hint of a smile, so that he almost believed her. “And I did not have to tell Grand an untruth because he left the house well before I did. He has business with the Duke. But I did tell Ernest, Grand’s majordomo, I was taking the trap to see my godmother… Which was a half-truth because I visited the dower house before coming here to pick up these supplies.” When Dair raised a questioning eyebrow, she had to suppress a smile, and could not look at him. “The main thing is, I didn’t lie…”

  Dair peered beneath the cloth covering the wicker basket at her feet, and then under the one by the bollard. Both were filled with enough provisions to feed a party of four. He draped his frock coat atop the bollard.

  “Are we going away for some time? Should I have left a note?”

  “Silly! I just thought—after all that rowing—you—men need sustenance after physical exertion�
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  Dair ignored her muddled explanation and the blush of embarrassment to her cheeks and said matter-of-factly, as he rolled his shirtsleeves to the elbow,

  “How thoughtful and clever of you to obtain such a feast by half-truths.”

  She looked smug. “Pierre thought nothing of it, truly, because the food for the Gatehouse Lodge comes from the dower house gardens. So do our bread and pastries. He was obliging, and happy to see the dinner he had prepared for the Duchess not go to waste. And he offered two of the kitchen hands to load the baskets and the nécessaire de voyage onto the skiff.” She frowned suddenly. “You dined alone, not with my godmother, last evening?”

  “She did not come downstairs, but kept to her apartments. I sup with her tonight, if she is well enough. And then I have an appointment with Lord Shrewsbury.”

  “Strange that she is ill. I hope it is nothing serious.” She looked up at him with a hesitant smile. “You are—you are going to speak to Grand today? He should be returned after dinner.”

  He smiled to himself at the hesitancy in her voice, and chuffed her under the chin.

  “What a doubting beauty you are! I suppose you woke this morning and instantly thought you had dreamed my proposal of marriage?”

  Rory gasped.

  “Oh! How did you know?”

  He burst out laughing and shook his head.

  “Oh, Delight, your lack of guile fills me with joy.” He affected a frown. “Or perhaps I should be offended you think me a fickle fiend?”

  She was suddenly shy and shook her head. When she went to pick up the lighter of the two baskets, he was quick to do this for her. He followed her across to the ladder.

  “No. But I am certain there will be many a young lady and her match-making mamma who will wish it was a dream when they discover the swoon-worthy Major Lord Fitzstuart is betrothed, and to me, of all the young ladies paraded before you each Season.”

  “Paraded before me? I hardly noticed. You don’t give yourself enough credit, Rory.” He put the basket down and cocked his head. “Am I swoon-worthy?”

  “Do you doubt it? Did you not believe me when I said every time you walk into a room female hearts—Oh! You are a fiend!” she gasped when he grinned and winked at her. “You are funning with me again!”

  But he lost his grin peering over the side of the jetty, down into the skiff.

  “I presume you want these baskets, and me, in that boat?”

  “Yes. I will pass them down to you… Or do you want me to get in first, and you can pass them to me?”

  He put the basket at his feet and took his frock coat off the bollard to rummage in a deep pocket. Finding what he was looking for, he removed the contents from a small velvet-covered box, then put the empty box back in his pocket and laid the frock coat across the top of the larger of the two baskets. Rory wondered if he was delaying the inevitable and was about to put her plan into effect when he asked her to hold out her right hand. He cleared his throat, and said after taking a deep breath then breathing easy,

  “Before I make a complete ass of myself, faint and fall off this wretched jetty and drown, I want you to have this.”

  On to her ring finger he slipped a thin gold band set with a octagonal-cut pale lavender sapphire. He turned the ring to check the fit, and was relieved that though her fingers were slim and her knuckle small, the ring fit snugly and could not slip from her finger.

  “This was given to my mother by my father upon my birth, in celebration for giving him an heir. She never wore it, and gave it to me on my twenty-first birthday on the understanding I present it to my betrothed. Now,” he added with a crooked smile, “when you wake, you will have tangible evidence our betrothal is not a dream. And proof,” he added, looking into her eyes, “of my love—and devotion.”

  She stared at the ring, almost disbelieving, unconsciously moving her fingers so the sunlight was captured in one of the eight octagonal facets. The pale lavender sapphire changed color in the light. It was the most wondrous ring she had ever seen. Tears misted her view.

  “Silly. You are not going to drown,” she said in a small voice, overcome. “It is—It is very beautiful. Thank you, Alisdair… I want to kiss you but—”

  “I understand. We are standing out in the open and there are eyes everywhere. Quickly! Let’s get to that island so we can kiss there!”

  They both laughed. He was only half joking. Before he could pick up the baskets, she threw her arms about his neck and kissed his bearded cheek.

  “Damn and blast those eyes!” she declared hotly, casting caution to the breeze. She tilted her chin up to him and received a gentle kiss on the mouth. “Yes. Let’s get to the island,” she added quietly. “I can thank you properly there. And I have a surprise waiting for you. Something you will enjoy…”

  It was then, with her caught up in his arms, he realized not only was she without her stays but the tabs that kept her petticoats about her waist were tied loosely indeed. He let her go before he gave in to desire and unraveled every bow, and tugged a finger in the lacings to open her jacket. He picked up the basket.

  “Did you dress yourself this morning?” he asked, desire making him sound gruff.

  “How else was I to dress? Poor Edith has the headache. Oh, did you think I made that up? No. Events of yesterday, and the secrecy of our betrothal, was too much for her. Of course, knowing we were off to Swan Island today only made the pain in her head pound all the more. So of course I had to dress myself, just as I am now undressing myself, and to good purpose.”

  While she was talking she was doing precisely what he wanted her to do, but never dreamed of her doing it here, out in the openness of a jetty. She slid her cotton petticoat down off her hips and stepped out of it. Next she unwound the gauze shawl from around her shoulders. Lastly, she unlaced the jacket, pulling the lacings away from the final eyelet so the two sides of the jacket fell open to reveal her breasts covered by a thin linen chemise. Having pulled her arms from the elbow-length sleeves, she scooped up the petticoat and shawl, and pressed all three feminine articles to his chest.

  He mechanically held her clothing, gaze riveted to her before him in nothing but a thin chemise and white stockings. If there were eyes out there watching them, all were riveted to her, and no wonder! Rory’s chemise skimmed her embroidered garters secured just above her knees. She might as well have been naked. He had not blinked from the moment she started undressing. His eyes were void of moisture, just like his throat, which was parched. He swallowed hard and tried to clear his throat of yearning.

  “Rory—Are you—are you mad? What—what are you about?”

  He tried to return her clothes but she pushed them back on him, a sly smile curving her lips. If she’d thought about it for a moment, she would have found his reaction to her nakedness amusing. After all, here was the Dair Devil himself, shocked by her behavior. But she knew what she was doing and she had faith in her ability to take him by surprise, leaving him disconcerted and baffled, and hopefully so preoccupied he would forget what lay ahead. By these means she was confident of getting him in the skiff and rowing across to the island before he knew what he was about, and where he was.

  “Put my clothes in the skiff, with everything else,” she ordered mildly. “I’ll have need of them later. Au revoir.”

  He had no idea what she was talking about. He turned to look down at the skiff, one arm holding a basket, the other full of her clothes, and at a loss to know what to do with either, despite her directive. Then he heard a neat splash and realized what had just happened. His head snapped round to where she had been standing. Sure enough, she was no longer there. She had dived over the side of the jetty into the lake.

  He called out to her, and without a second thought scrambled down the rusted steps of the iron ladder, her petticoat, jacket and shawl bunched up under his arm and the basket in one hand. He was halfway down the ladder before he glanced over his shoulder, down at the water. He was just in time to see Rory surface from th
e depths of the lake near the bow of the bobbing skiff.

  “Don’t forget the other basket!” she yelled, pulling herself up out of the lake, chemise heavy with water and adhering to her curves like a second skin. “And remove the rope from the bollard, too!”

  “Jesu…” Dair almost lost his grip.

  Rory hung there, half out of the water, leaning her frame against the outer shell of the boat, arms extended and gripping its side to keep herself upright. Here she balanced, waiting for the water to drain off her so most of it wouldn’t end up in the skiff with them. She then scrambled up over the side and into the boat, onto the curved polished burden boards.

  Dair didn’t take his gaze off her for a moment. But once she was safely aboard, he turned and scurried back up the ladder to do as she had directed, descending the ladder again in what would have been record time, had records ever been kept of such feats.

  Rory scampered up into the stern, to haul in the rope, and to take the baskets from him, one by one. She stowed them with various other items the kitchen assistants had brought on board earlier and stacked in the bow: A small shagreen-covered nécessaire de voyage containing all they needed in the way of porcelain plates, bowls, cups and saucers, as well as cutlery, glasses, serving implements and a small silver teapot. A waterproof leather satchel held a bundle of candles and a tinderbox. There were also a couple of towels, and a quilted blanket to sit upon and spread out their feast.

  Dair was numb to it all as he dropped onto the thwart where the oars were secured in their oarlocks. He could have been carved from stone, such was the tightness in every muscle, now that he was aware of being on water. He was conscious only of the rocking of the unmoored skiff as Rory scampered about, and that all there was between him and the murky black water full of reeds was a thin wooden hull. He just wanted to scramble out of the skiff, up the ladder, and make a dash for firm land. There wasn’t even a wager in place to force him to remain or lose—not only face, but his moniker of Dair Devil, and the admiration of his fellows. But such intangibles all seemed rather trivial to him now.