Carola Dunn (8 page)

 She slowed Shadow to a walk. Iain and Hippocrates promptly fell back beside them.

 “I thought I felt Shadow stumble. I was afraid she might be lamed.”

 Iain studied the mare’s gait for a moment. “I cannot see any limp, but perhaps you had best walk her the rest of the way.”

 Thankful, Cecily nodded. “Do you count horse-doctoring among your skills?” she enquired archly.

 He laughed. “Not I, but I can spot a limp as well as any farrier, if not diagnose the cause.”

 “Elspeth told me your chief interest is in treating children.” She had not spoken of it before, since it touched too closely on the painful subject of his plans for the future.

 She was glad she had asked. Eagerly he expounded on his hopes for founding a clinic and investigating the way various remedies affected children differently from adults.

 “You should not have got me started,” he said ruefully as they rode under the stableyard arch. “My friends avoid the topic, for I can go on for hours.”

 “It is all fascinating,” Cecily assured him. “If you had started thirty years ago, perhaps I should have half a dozen brothers and sisters now.”

 “Perhaps.” Reminded of the reason for her compliance with her parents’ every wish, Iain fell silent.

 He handed her down from the saddle without mishap this time, without any excuse to take her in his arms—just as well as grooms and stableboys were about. Nonetheless, their eyes met.

 Cecily read love, sorrow, and understanding in his gaze. He thought she still meant to marry Lord Avon! How could she explain he had misinterpreted the purpose behind her words?

 As a groom approached, Iain said hurriedly in a low voice, “We may still be friends when you are Lady Avon?”

 “We shall always be friends, I hope, whatever may happen!”

 “Then I must be satisfied. Excuse me, pray, I have to drive into Bath this afternoon to see a few patients who do not trust my locum.”

 He turned away. Cecily trailed alone and disconsolate into the house.

 She loved him more than ever, and she no longer had the least doubt that he loved her. If Lord Avon failed, she would just have to find a way to abduct Iain and get herself so thoroughly compromised there was no choice but for them to wed.

 Resolute, yet shaken at the prospect of such outrageous behaviour, she fervently prayed Lord Avon would succeed.

Chapter 8

 For the next three days, Cecily was on tenterhooks. Twelfth Night was nearly upon them. If she were not betrothed to Lord Avon by then everyone would be all agog for explanations. He said nothing to the purpose, and they were never alone together. The only assurance she had that he had neither forgotten nor neglected his promise was his response to a pleading look: a murmured “Have faith!”

 Since the phrase was accompanied by a teasing smile, she was far from reassured.

 Twelfth Night at Felversham was a democratic occasion in the ancient tradition. Under a king and queen chosen by lot, high and low, young and old mingled in disguise to dance and feast in the ball room, the portrait gallery, and various nearby apartments.

 Decorum was preserved by the knowledge that the Duke’s democratic principles were not so enlightened that he would hesitate to dismiss any dependent who stepped across the line. Masks were no excuse for licence.

 Though Cecily was not in costume, her Mama had permitted her to have tiny star-shaped spangles sewn all over her gown, which was the intense blue of the evening sky when stars first appear. It was the colour of her eyes, visible through the black silk mask concealing the upper part of her face. Most of her hair was hidden by the hood of her watered silk domino. As she moved the changeable silk revealed the shades of sunset: pink, peach, and flame.

 “The Queen of the Night,” said a highwayman, materializing beside her as she entered the ball room.

 “She was a villain,” Cecily protested, laughing, as she recognized Lord Avon.

 “What better match for a villainous Gentleman of the Road?” His eyes gleamed mockingly through the holes in his mask. “Meet me by the First Duke at the stroke of midnight, fair Queen. I shall wave my Magic Flute and turn into a Fairy Godmother. Or perhaps a pumpkin or a pirate, who can guess?”

 The crowd swirled around them and he was gone.

 As partner succeeded partner, known and unknown, Cecily watched for him, but there were several highwaymen present and the one who danced with her was someone else. What was he going to do? Surely he did not expect to force her parents’ and Iain’s hands with a public announcement that she and Iain were engaged to marry?

 They would deny it. Nothing but public humiliation lay that way.

 Iain stood up with her, sober in a plain black domino. Cecily was too agitated to enjoy the dance, and his hazel eyes were anguished. Clearly he expected to hear this night that she was betrothed to his cousin. When the music ended, he pressed her hand and whispered, “Courage!” before relinquishing her to a waiting Harlequin—whom she promptly abandoned.

 “Do you know the time?” she asked him.

 “Nearly midnight.”

 “I am sorry, I must...I am engaged for the next set.” She slipped away through the throng.

 The Highwayman awaited her by the First Duke’s portrait. He took her hand. “Come, down the backstairs. Quiet, and hurry.”

 “What...? Where...?”

 “The child—the gamekeeper’s brat—has hurt himself and is crying for you.” Lord Avon’s eyes glinted with deviltry behind his mask.

 Cecily refused to believe Ben had come to grief just at the time when the marquis had arranged to meet her. She recalled her father’s mention of Lord Avon’s youthful peccadilloes, and tales she had heard of the riot and rumpus kicked up by young blades with nothing better to do. What was he up to?

 “Don’t turn missish on me now!” he said impatiently. “Do you or don’t you wish to—”

 “Yes, yes, I am coming.”

 He rushed her down a narrow, dark stairway. At the bottom he took a warm cloak from a hook on the wall and placed it around her shoulders.

 “Where are we going? Where is Ben?”

 “He stayed at home. I’ll take you there. You can go up before me on Caesar.”

 The black Thoroughbred was already saddled and waiting just outside the side door. Cecily decided she had no choice but to trust Lord Avon. She let him toss her up onto Caesar’s withers. He swung into the saddle behind her and they set off into the night.

 The frost had broken and a mild, blustery wind, such as breathes a balmy promise of spring even in January, tossed diaphanous rags of cloud across the haloed moon. The canter across the moonlit park would have been almost unbearably romantic if only the hard chest Cecily leant against was Iain’s, not Lord Avon’s.

 With a chuckle he said, “You will have to claim you were abducted by a masked highwayman.”

* * * *

 Iain tore himself away from Cecily and went to find a punch bowl to drown his sorrows, to dim the vision of her eyes full of love and hope.

 What did she expect of him, that he would toss her over his saddle-bow and carry her off into the night, like the knight in one of her beloved ballads? Did she not understand that would be a betrayal which must damn him forever in his own as well as the world’s eyes?

 Why the deuce was not Jasper with her? He must intend to announce their betrothal at midnight, the witching hour—unless he had shied off at the eleventh hour. Was Cecily to suffer the public humiliation of his failing to come up to scratch?

 Iain gulped a glass of punch. As he turned to pour another, a Goddess of the Hunt, all in green with bow and quiver, accosted him.

 Of the several Dianas present at the hunt-mad Duke’s entertainment, this one turned out to be Elspeth. Drawing him aside, she said urgently, “Iain, the little boy has hurt himself, the gamekeeper’s son. He has broke his splints and injured his arm again, I collect. You must go to the rescue.”

 “Oh Lord! Where is he?”

 “I am told he was left at home with his elder sister for fear of just such an accident in the crowds.” She scurried along beside him as he thrust through the crush towards the stairs. “He climbed a ladder, I believe, and fell forward when he caught his foot in the top rung. I am not perfectly sure. It sounds odd, but his sister brought the message and doubtless she was out of breath and in a fright.”

 “There is a ladder to their attic room. Tell his parents I’m on my way, Elspeth.”

 “If I can find them in this squeeze!”

 The stables were deserted, but he was used to saddling Hippocrates for himself. A few minutes later he trotted under the archway.

 Despite flying clouds, the moonlight was bright enough to risk a canter once he had ripped off his mask for better vision. As he rode, uncomfortable on horseback in evening dress, Iain tried to fix his mind on the medical problem ahead of him. His thoughts kept drifting back to the revelry he had left behind.

 Even now Jasper and Lady Cecily must be receiving the congratulations of well-wishers, for the Marquis of Avon was an honourable gentleman and would never cry off at this late stage. Iain did not see how he could bear to go back to add his felicitations. Perhaps he would ride on from the gamekeeper’s cottage to his home in Bath and write to Jasper from there.

 Cecily, secure in the knowledge that she had done her duty, would understand. She would be grateful to be spared facing him until she had forgotten—

 “No,” he cried aloud, “she cannot forget!” She would mourn their love, though she let it die and—as duty and honour demanded—turned her affections to her husband.

 Between the bare trees, he saw lights in the cottage windows, upstairs and down. At last his thoughts turned towards the child lying frightened and in pain, awaiting his coming. God send Ben had done his arm no permanent damage!

 Hippocrates tied, Iain hurried into the cottage and scrambled up the ladder in the corner of the kitchen. Stepping over the top rung, he straightened as far as he could.

 The long loft, with its low, sloping ceiling, was lit by a single lantern. Near it, on a straw-filled mattress covered by a colourful counterpane, sat Lady Cecily.

 “What the deuce are you doing here?”

 He looked appalled. Wondering what his cousin’s plot would bring next, Cecily said with fragile composure, “Lord Avon brought me.”

 “Jasper? What bee has my cousin got into his noggin?”

 “He told me Ben was hurt and in need of whatever comfort I could bring.”

 “Jasper?” Iain asked incredulously. “Concerned for the gamekeeper’s brat? But never mind that. I have come to see to his injury.” He glanced down the length of the loft. “Where is he?”

 “Up here, I gathered, but I cannot find him.”

 Stooping, the doctor moved a few steps, peering at the beds laid out in a neat row on the floor. “Nor can I. Where’s Jasper? Surely he did not leave you here alone?”

 The immediate answer was a scraping noise followed by a crash. The ladder disappeared. A moment later the door below slammed.

 As Iain and Cecily stared at each other, hooves drummed, fading into the distance.

 Cecily closed her eyes. She should have guessed from the glint in Lord Avon’s eyes that he was going to do something drastic like this. By the time the Divers came home from the Twelfth Night celebrations, she would be thoroughly compromised. Iain would feel obliged to marry her whether he really wanted to or not.

 He did want to, she told herself. Had she not contemplated doing something of the same sort? She opened her eyes and held out her hand.

 “It would seem we are stuck. Come and sit down.”

 Iain’s incredulous look faded. His lips twitched. “You don’t appear desperately surprised...nor distressed,” he said dryly as the mattress crunched beneath his weight.

 She blushed. “I am not very surprised. The story about Ben was not at all convincing, and Lord Avon had promised me—”

 “Good Lord, this is a plot between the two of you?”

 “I did not know precisely what he would do. But if it succeeds how can I be distressed?”

 “Truly?” He took her hand. “Life as a doctor’s wife is very different from anything you have known, and I shall not give up my profession.”

 “Of course not! Iain, you will not do anything idiotically noble like refusing my fortune?”

 “What makes you suppose you will not be cut off without a penny for making such a mésalliance?”

 “Papa would never be so petty. He wants me to be happy. Besides,” Cecily added frankly, “he does not care for my cousin who will inherit the title and the entailed property. And even if he leaves the unentailed property to the Society for the Suppression of Vice—which I cannot think likely!—I shall have my mother’s dowry. It is irrevocably settled on me. I should think fifty thousand pounds will be enough to found a children’s clinic, will it not?”

 Iain laughed, a trifle shakily. “More than enough, beloved. You don’t believe that’s why I want to marry you?”

 “You do want to marry me?” she faltered. “I could not bear it if you were trapped into—”

 He pulled her into his arms and her last doubts fled as their lips met. His kiss was full of tenderness, with a promise of passion to come. It ended all too soon for Cecily.

 “My dearest love,” he murmured into her hair, “I want nothing more in the world than to make you my wife. However—”

 “However?” She sat bolt upright, staring at him in indignation.

 “However, there is bound to be a vast amount of talk, and I see no need to add a touch of genuine scandal to what will otherwise be a nine-days’ wonder.”

 Crossing to the ladder hole, he lowered himself and dropped to the floor below.

 “Iain!” Cecily knelt by the hole, gazing down at his upturned, grinning face. “You mean we are not stuck after all?”

 “We are not. Jasper is far too clever for that! We shall return to the house before we are missed, and I’ll request your hand of your father in due form. With Jasper no longer your suitor I daresay Lord Flint will make the best of my offer.”

 “I hope so,” Cecily said doubtfully.

 “Come.”

 He reached up, and Cecily slid down trustfully into his arms.