Silver Enchantress

by Patricia Rice

  A flash of anger replaced her plea. “The marquess has interfered enough as it is. Keep him out of this.”

  The baronet nodded agreement. “Sherburne does have a tendency to take matters in his own hands, but he comes by that trait naturally. He suffered the same from his father. I see no reason to involve him further. What has de Lacy done to cause your hate?”

  Eileen took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “I cannot remember much. I was very small. There was always arguing when he was about. My mother avoided him, and I learned to do the same. Only he made my father very angry, and I hated it when they yelled at each other. Once I took a fire poker and swung it at his knees to make my uncle stop shouting at my father. He cursed terribly, but my father took me from the room and we laughed and everything was better again.”

  Sir John could almost see the scene through a child’s eyes. Elizabeth and Richard had little wealth, but they had been happy with each other and their charming, elfin child. A child would have seen them as a god and goddess descended from Mt. Olympus, so radiant had they been. The intrusion of reality in the form of the dark prince, de Lacy, could have easily caused fear.

  Eileen gathered her breath and tried to explain. “I do not understand many things I remember. Strangers would come and my father would be up late talking and arguing with them. There were meetings. The villagers smiled on him, but many whispered behind his back. I can remember not understanding this or the warnings my mother whispered in my ears when I wished to play with the other children. I remember being lonely except when I was with my family. My mother loved picnics. We had a special place, a lovely place, where we went to be together. No one came there except us. Until that day.”

  Her voice broke and Sir John writhed with the agony he caused her, but he had to know. All these years of wondering, puzzling, and now she was about to shed some light on it. He could not stop her.

  “My uncle arrived on his horse, with others. They had swords in their hands. They said terrible things about my father. He tried arguing with them.” Eileen stumbled and wrung her hands while her eyes seemed to seek the past. “I don’t know. . . My uncle held my mother and she screamed horribly. My father drew his sword and a man shrieked. And then they were all around him and my uncle was laughing and my mother was screaming and screaming and I could not bear it. My father fell and I ran out of the bushes and picked up a knife from the basket, and I ran at my uncle, yelling at him to help. He was. . .”

  Eileen halted, her eyes going wide as she apparently understood the import of her recollection. “My uncle held my mother on the ground. He swung at me, and I threw the knife at him. Blood went everywhere, all over my mother, and she just kept screaming. And then he picked me up and threw me and. . .”

  Shivering now, Eileen clasped her arms around herself and rocked back and forth. Sir John wished he had some way to suppress her pain and anguish. Trembling with the emotions her story engendered, he rose and offered his hand. “I think you had better go to your room, little one. I will send Emma to you with a sleeping draught and make your excuses to the company. You have had enough for one night.”

  Eileen’s speaking eyes pleaded with him for understanding. “You see, don’t you? Why I cannot let him know? I do not want to lose you, too.”

  Sir John choked on his fury and anguish and nodded, not daring to say more. When she fled the room, he grabbed the brandy and swallowed a mouthful. He didn’t see, he didn’t see at all, but how could he tell her that?

  With a sigh the baronet had the first glimmer of what Drake had known from the outset—life would be much simpler had Eileen never regained the use of her tongue.

  By mid-afternoon of the next day, Eileen had resolved on the only solution to her dilemma. As much as she would like to, she had not the strength or resources to kill a man like Lord de Lacy. Now that he knew she could speak, Sir John, like Drake, would never allow her to retreat into her own world again. Already she felt his anxious gaze follow her about as she communicated silently with her friends. If she were to return to the real world, Drake’s world and her uncle’s, she must recover her speech. That would bring de Lacy back with a vengeance. She must protect the Summervilles from that eventuality, and she knew only one way to do it. She must marry and leave the loving aunt and uncle who had been her world these past years.

  Gazing at the assortment of guests remaining, Eileen tabulated the qualities of the male population of her acquaintance. The ideal candidate, of course, would be Drake. He had the power and authority and wealth to protect her family and shield her from de Lacy. Except not only was he taken, but she and Drake would in all probability kill each other instead of her uncle. Jamie and Teddie and the other itinerant artists she automatically ruled out. They suited her nature best, perhaps, but they would be useless in any confrontation with her evil uncle. Which turned her attention to the man who could stand up to a cavalry of soldiers.

  Michael Jasper sat beside Diane at the spinet, turning the pages for her songs, joining in on duets. For such a large man he had remarkably agile fingers, and he and Diane played well together. He was not an imaginative man, or a playful one, but his serious mien hid a multitude of virtues. She had found him to be gentle and understanding, and she suspected he would be faithful and trustworthy. And he would defend her family with his dying breath if they accepted him. And they would.

  As soon as a group distracted Diane into a game of cards, Eileen tugged at Michael’s coat sleeve and indicated she would like to walk. Drake and Pamela had left early that morning, leaving no one to object as she left the company.

  The December weather was too inclement for a stroll, but Summer Hall provided its own entertainment. Eileen guided him toward the earthy humidity of the plant-laden conservatory.

  Michael had inquired about the prior night’s unusual events, but Drake had never provided an explanation, and Eileen could not. But Michael has been at war long enough to recognize when danger threatened, and he wished to offer this frail lass what aid he could. He pushed aside a vine and took her hand to assist her down the stairs into the glass-walled plant room.

  It seemed more her natural habitat than ballrooms. Michael watched with amazement as the silent girl transformed into a blithe spirit darting from plant to plant, apparently enraptured by the rich aromas and brilliant colors around her. Her green skirts trailed in the dirt, dancing on the whirlwind of her energy as she bent and snipped and reached for the highest fruits on the orange trees. He laughed and plucked the topmost fruit for her, and they shared the juice together.

  How she arranged it, Michael would never know, but one moment he was using his handkerchief to wipe a drop of juice from the corner of her mouth, and the next he was plying those delectable lips with his own. And she was responding.

  He halted as soon as Eileen lay her small hand against his chest in warning, but the damage was already done. Michael had never had the wealth to court a proper lady, never indulged in stolen kisses with one until now. His eyes opened as he realized the possibilities with this one, and his body cried out its need as he met her smiling eyes. Smiling! She did not reject his advances, and his heart skipped another beat.

  “Miss de Lacy, Eileen. . . I had not planned this.” Unaccustomed to speaking his thoughts aloud, Michael tried to explain himself. “I do not regret it, though.”

  A soft smile touched Eileen’s lips as she gazed up into his confusion.

  She touched his cheek in reply, and Michael caught her hand and held it there.

  “If I have your uncle’s permission, you will allow me to court you?” He concealed his eagerness, for he had been audience to the laughter the suit of others had received at her hands. He still could not believe his good fortune in being allowed this close to the elusive wisp others had begun to call the wicked enchantress.

  Eileen curled her hand in the security of his large one and nodded. She had made her choice; now she must abide by it. Michael’s neatly powdered hair seemed incongruous above his large
, square face, but she liked his eyes. They did not have Drake’s long lashes, and they did not pierce her to the quick with their stare, but brown and deep, they seemed genuinely astounded at the present state of affairs. She allowed his admiration to fan her sorely wounded vanity.

  Diane glanced up from the card table as they returned to the room hand in hand, and her heart sunk. She had not thought. . . but she had no right to think. Still, she had been so certain Drake and Eileen. . . they were perfect together. With aching fury she threw down a perfectly good hand, much to her partner’s dismay. Damn the self-righteous Lady Pamela to her rightful place in hell.

  Sir John, too, worried as he watched the ex-soldier leave his study later that day. He immediately sent for Eileen. He would have been thrilled by the prospect of such a sensible match had it not been for the revelations of the prior night. Now he suspected the precipitousness of this courtship.

  In Eileen’s entrance he saw no sign of the effervescent happiness her mother had displayed upon discovering her Richard. His niece appeared as calm and lovely as ever, but he could not persuade himself to believe love glowed in her eyes. The fact that she had not revealed her ability to speak to her suitor told the rest of the tale.

  “You have never shown an interest in Michael before, child. Is there a need for this suddenness?” The baronet came to the point, a tactic he had learned early with this one.

  Eileen did not sit. “I cannot expect you to keep my secret from my aunt forever. If I marry, the danger will be much less, and I should be able to speak more freely. I think Michael is the best choice. Don’t you agree?” She lifted her chin.

  “Michael is a fine choice, and I have told him he is welcome to court you, but I don’t understand. Why would you feel more free to speak married to Michael than now?” Even as he said it, Sir John felt an understanding that plucked a string of anguish in his heart.

  “I fear Lord de Lacy might think you will encourage me to speak out to regain my father’s inheritance. You have the authority to have his crime investigated, but Michael does not. You cannot be with me always, but Michael can. Married, everything I own becomes my husband’s, so my uncle will no longer have reason to fear you. I do not think he will fear Michael, except for his strength. If we live quietly, perhaps Lord de Lacy will be satisfied to leave us alone. I think I would feel safe to speak then.”

  Sir John stared bleakly out the window. Despite her pretty words, he understood she was protecting him and Emma, perhaps rightly so. If a young warrior like his brother-in-law had not been able to defend his family against his younger brother, Sir John certainly could not. And he had a feeling if Eileen’s tale were repeated to the authorities, he would soon find himself in the position of defending his family. He had never been a coward where just his self was concerned, but Emma and Eileen. . . She was right. Her speech meant danger, and Michael was more suited for the defense than himself. He suddenly felt old and gray.

  “I see,” he murmured. “And when do you intend to reveal to your suitor that you have been concealing such a secret from him?”

  Eileen fidgeted. Sensing her unspoken answer, Sir John pinned her with a stern gaze.

  “You will tell him before you marry. I will not have the lad deceived. He is a good, worthy man. You could not have chosen better, and he will be well rewarded. But I will not allow your flummery with him. If he presses his suit, and I believe he will, you will be honest with him. Give me your word on that.”

  Feeling the door of her cage inexorably closing, Eileen nodded. Holding her head high to keep the tears from falling, she left. Marriage would be a lesser prison than the one she had courted last night.

  Chapter 11

  March, 1746

  With the month of April drawing closer, the Neville household had reached a state of chaos in preparation for the wedding. Lady Diane watched with distaste as still another indignant maid offered to pack her bags if her services were not satisfactory. Drake had nearly snapped the heads off two of them just this morning alone, and she wagered the kitchen had reached a point of mutiny with her brother’s latest demand. A dinner for half the county on a last-minute notice was enough to force mass resignations.

  After calming the maid, Diane contemplated calling a footman to wheel her to the kitchen, but the appearance of her brother in the doorway squelched that notion. He seemed more at loose ends now than he had been when their father lived, roaming restlessly about the estate, creating havoc in his footsteps in his search for perfection. He was like a man driven by madness.

  Diane watched warily as Drake strolled into the room without a greeting, going directly to the French doors and staring out upon the gardens. Half a dozen gardeners were trimming and raking and planting in preparation for the wedding six weeks hence. Diane wondered if he had decided they must force the bulbs to bloom sooner in time for his latest entertainment, or if he would be content to let nature take its course.

  “Are you inviting anyone I might enjoy, or will it be another evening of Lord Westley’s dread bores?” Diane spoke more sharply than was her custom, for she had grown quite out of patience with her usually affable brother’s recent irritability. If this would be the normal state of affairs after his marriage, she would most certainly retire to the dower house.

  Drake continued to stare out the window. Diane wished she could throw something at him to wake him up, but he would more than likely send for a physician, thinking her ill. He seldom laughed anymore, and the only words out of his mouth now were critical ones. She didn’t like this side of Drake, but she was at a loss to correct it. She had troubles enough of her own.

  “I have invited the Summervilles. That should please you,” Drake finally responded, turning back toward the room and wandering to the mantel. He played with the delicate figurines of a shepherd and shepherdess as he spoke.

  “Then I trust Michael has been invited also. I have a feeling Eileen will decline unless he is of the party.” Diane bent over the spinet, studying her finger placement.

  The crook of the shepherd’s stick snapped in Drake’s fingers, and he cursed, setting the piece down and roaming to an alcove hung with stringed instruments.

  “Is he still pursuing her? I thought he would be content with the position of estate manager I offered him. I cannot squeeze two words in a row from the devil.”

  Diane cringed as Drake removed a delicate lyre from its rope and plucked it. If he did not marry soon, he would bring the house down around their heads.

  “Why should he be content with a position when he can have a wealthy wife and lands of his own? You know Lady Summerville is offering her lands as dowry. Michael is of good family and deserves better than you offer. I cannot fault him for seeking to better himself, particularly since Eileen encourages him.”

  Diane could fault Michael for his decision to court Eileen, but she tried not to. After all, what other encouragement had he ever been given? Drake’s next words echoed her own thoughts.

  “The match would be disastrous. Eileen has an uncontrollable temper and a wayward streak that Michael will never understand. He needs a quiet, domesticated type, someone to look after, not someone he will spend his days looking for. She won’t stay put. Can’t you warn her she is making a mistake?”

  Diane stared in amazement at her brother. He continued mutilating the lyre strings. A thousand questions leaped to mind, but her mood was such that only sarcasm emerged.

  “When have lovers ever listened to reason? And I should certainly think that if Michael needs the quiet type, he has made the best choice.” She slammed down the lid of her instrument and rang the bell attached to her chair, summoning a footman.

  “Do I need to call Dr. Goatley?” Drake asked, finally looking at her. “Have the wedding preparations tired you? I’ll hire someone to make order of this chaos if the responsibility is too tiring. . .”

  There was the Drake she knew, but it was too late for him now. The wheels of fate were already in motion. Diane shook her head furious
ly.

  “It is you who needs the physician! Even a blind man could see Pamela will not make you happy. But for pride and honor, you would see those you love destroyed. Don’t expect sympathy from me.”

  The lute’s strings snapped as the footman wheeled Diane from the room.

  How could this damned marriage destroy anyone but himself? With frustration Drake flung the offending instrument against the wall and stalked out the garden door. Just the touch of a faerie’s lips had made a demented man of him. He would do well to return to the real world.

  By the night of the dinner, Drake had other things on his mind than Diane’s anger. The rumors of the Duke of Cumberland’s march to Scotland had begun to trickle down from the north. Drake’s thoughts were more on reining in his fractious cousins than his sister’s dismal mood. The Monsards were chewing at the bit, swearing all loyal king’s men should be rallying behind the Stuart standard in the face of the German usurper. Perhaps he ought to send them back to France until the inevitable disaster was over.

  With these worries on his mind, Drake had little patience for Pamela’s chatter as they strolled from one salon to another, greeting guests. The card room was already filled. A small group of musicians tuned their instruments in the grand salon, and more guests began to fill its vast floor. He had little opportunity to speak with Sir John, and his cousins seemed to be avoiding him. Gritting his teeth, Drake noted Edmund with Lord Westley, and he began to maneuver Pamela toward him. He would locate the elusive Monsards a good deal quicker without his fiancée hampering his search.

  “Is your décolletage deeper than usual?” he asked, glancing down at his fiancée’s formidable bosom. She’d gained weight since the announcement of their engagement.

  “Do you like this gown?” she asked, preening.

  “I’ve seen more modest ones on whores.”

  Pamela glared at that response, then pouted when he left her with her father.