Carola Dunn (9 page)

 After another loving kiss, they headed for the door. Iain opened it and followed Cecily out.

 “What the deuce?” he swore. “Jas has taken Hippocrates! I’m afraid it looks as if he does want us to be away long enough to make certain of the business. We shall have to walk.”

 Cecily held out a foot clad in a dainty satin dancing slipper. “Not in these.”

 “Oh Lord!” He looked down at his own somewhat sturdier leather shoes. “I’ll go and fetch a mount.”

 “It seems Lord Avon has left you another way to escape, if you choose.”

 “You know I don’t! But—”

 “Iain, I had much rather not wait all alone here in the woods.” She glanced around at the leafless trees, towering darkly, their wind-tossed branches casting restless, eerie moon-shadows. Any tree-trunk could conceal a real highwayman. “Stay with me. Lord Avon cannot want a scandal, any more than we do. Let us see what his ingenuity brings next!”

* * * *

 In the ballroom, in the course of a country dance, Diana the Huntress met a tall pirate with a black beard and a velvet eyepatch. As they promenaded together, she hissed, “It is you! I have been looking for you everywhere. You were a—”

 “Shhh. I am a pirate,” Jasper said with a grin. “I have always been a pirate, don’t forget it. Mama has retired to bed at last.”

 “Thank heaven. Aunt Louisa has by far too knowing an eye.”

 “Yes, a
fait accompli
is the only thing for Mama. Time for Act Three of this little comedy. I wish I could have rehearsed Iain and Lady Cecily. You know your lines?”

 “Word perfect,” Elspeth promised over her shoulder, rejoining her partner.

 The dance soon ended. Through crowds thinned at this late hour, Elspeth hurried to where she had remarked Lord and Lady Flint conferring worriedly in a corner. They must be wondering what had happened to the expected betrothal, she thought with a touch of pity for their coming disillusionment.

 “Lord Flint? It is you? At last!”

 “Who—?”

 “Elspeth Sutton. May I speak to you privately?” She glanced at Lady Flint, as if uncertain of her identity.

 “This is my wife. What is it? Is something wrong?”

 “Cecily?” asked Lady Flint, hands clasped in anguish.

 “She is quite safe now, I assure you. I have only a rather garbled account, but this is what happened as far as I can gather. It seems my brother saw Cecily abducted by a highwayman, whether real or in costume I cannot guess, some hours since. He rode after them and somehow rescued her.”

 “My poor child,” moaned Lady Flint.

 “Where is she?” Lord Flint enquired more practically.

 “They were near the gamekeeper’s cottage, so he took her there. She was quite frightened, I collect, and in no case to walk any distance—Iain’s horse had run off at some point. A farm labourer on his way home saw the lights and called in to say hello to Diver. Iain sent him back here to look for me, hoping I might somehow avert a scandal. Unluckily, I was with Cousin Jasper when the man found me and told the tale.”

 “Lord Avon knows?” they asked in dismayed unison.

 “He sent me to search for you, while he has a gig harnessed to fetch them. I expect you will want to go with him, Lord Flint? I shall stay with Lady Flint. Take heart, dear ma’am,” she said soothingly as his lordship strode away. “The man swears Cecily is not hurt, and in comparison, what is the ruin of the match of the Season?”

 Lady Flint groaned, but, Elspeth noted, did not contradict her.

* * * *

 Cecily stopped in the middle of her sentence as Iain held up his hand. Listening, she heard hooves, jingling harness, the creak of wheels.

 “I believe we are about to discover the rest of Jasper’s plot,” he said in a voice filled with misgiving. “I trust he has not brought a crowd to witness our unmasking.”

 Lord Flint strode into the cottage.

 “Papa!” Cecily jumped up and ran to him.

 He folded her in his arms. “The brute did not hurt you, Cecy?”

 Lord Avon’s words came back to her: “You will have to claim you were abducted by a masked highwayman.” She had thought he was joking!

 “No, Papa. Iain—Dr Macfarlane—rescued me before the highwayman had a chance to work his wicked wiles.”

 “I confess I cannot quite make out exactly what happened.”

 “Do not make me talk about it, Papa, I beg of you. Until Iain came it was perfectly horrid!” She turned, still encircled by one of his arms, and held out her hand to Iain who took it in a warm clasp. “He is a hero, Papa!”

 “My thanks, Doctor.” Lord Flint shook hands heartily with his daughter’s rescuer.

 “Oh, Papa, when may we be married?”

 Her father looked grimly resigned. He glanced at Lord Avon, who leant against the doorpost wearing a pirate costume, his most sardonic expression on what was visible of his face above a huge black beard.

 “I suppose...?” said Lord Flint unhopefully.

 Lord Avon shook his head. “They have been alone together for several hours,” he pointed out. “I trust we may avert a scandal, but you cannot expect, my dear sir—”

 “I suppose not.” The earl heaved a sigh and shook hands reluctantly with his future son-in-law. “Forgive me, my dear fellow, if I say you’re not quite what I’d hoped for for my girl. But needs must when the devil drives, eh?”

 “I drove the gig here,” said Lord Avon, laughing devils in his eyes, “but I brought Caesar and Lord Flint rode, so you may drive Lady Cecily home, Iain. I’ll be groomsman at your wedding.”

 “Good of you, Avon,” Lord Flint conceded. “Come along, Cecily. What your mama is going to think of this night’s work I dare not guess.” He stumped out.

 Lord Avon smiled. “Never fear, Elspeth’s seen to Lady Flint, and I shall handle my mother and father,” he said softly, and turning his back, he warned, “Don’t be too long about it.”

 So Iain swept Cecily into his arms for a swift, joyful kiss, and they went out together into the moonlit night.

Epilogue

 Frost sparkled in the sun that February day as the cream of Society crammed into the village church. The Earl of Flint’s daughter was to marry a physician! He was the Duchess of Pembroke’s nephew, though, and Duke and Duchess would attend the wedding. No one who was anyone had refused the coveted invitation.

 Everyone had expected Lady Cecily Barwith to wed the Marquis of Avon. Yet rumour had it he was to stand up with his cousin, the bridegroom. That certainly put paid to any hint of scandal, but what a delicious tidbit of gossip!

 Dr Iain Macfarlane and Lord Avon arrived together. His lordship was acknowledged to appear perfectly content with his supporting rôle in the affair.

 Thus most eyes were on the bride as she walked up the aisle on her father’s arm, her face radiant behind her veil. A few glanced at the fortunate bridegroom waiting at the altar, his expression serious but his eyes bright.

 Fewer still spared a glance for the groomsman. Those who did were surprised to note a triumphant grin, directed at some member of the congregation. And Heavens above, was that a wink?

 Seated at her husband’s side, her face a picture of quiet smugness, Elspeth Lady Sutton winked back.

_________________________________________________

He Stoops to Conquer

Chapter 1

 Candle in hand, Prudence stood in the middle of the deserted ballroom, head cocked, listening. The thud of booted footsteps crossing the anteroom swiftly approached. She was about to be caught snooping.

 
Oh bother,
she thought, snuffing the candle. Who could have guessed anyone would come to the ballroom at dusk on a winter’s afternoon? At the front of the great mansion, Christmas guests were arriving in swarms. What with greeting them, offering refreshments, showing them to their chambers, heating and carrying water, preparing dinner, the entire household from marquis to scullery-boy should be fully occupied.

 Someone was not. On silent, slippered feet Prudence sped to the nearest french-window alcove. The doors were locked. She pulled one crimson velvet curtain across the bay just enough to hide her, at the last moment whisking a corner of the hem of her brown stuff gown out of sight.

 The footsteps stopped. She held her breath. The footsteps resumed, rapid now, coming straight towards her.

 Resigned, she let out her breath on a sigh. She was about to emerge when a brusque hand flung back the curtain. A tall man in a caped greatcoat stared down at her. The last light entering through the glass behind her showed no more of his face than dark hair and a frown, but he smelled of sandalwood, horse, and fresh air.

 “Who the deuce are you?” he demanded, stepping back to look her up and down.

 Prudence raised her chin. At eight-and-twenty she was too old to be intimidated by that sort of look. “I am Miss Savage,” she said with what dignity she could muster after being discovered skulking behind the arras.

 “Savage by name but not by nature, I trust.” He sounded odiously mocking. “Are you a guest here?”

 “Not precisely.”

 “A guest’s servant?”

 “No!”

 “Don’t tell me I have captured a female burglar! It will be a nine days’ wonder in the county.”

 “I’m not a burglar,” Prudence said crossly. “If you must know, I am an actress with the company the Marquis of Easthaven has hired to entertain his guests.”

 “Ah, I see.” Now his tone was enigmatic. She wished she could make out his expression. “Might one enquire, Miss Savage, just what you were doing in his lordship’s ballroom in the dark? I hope I’ve not been so crass as to interrupt an assignation?”

 “Certainly not! It wasn’t dark when I came, still isn’t quite, and besides, I have a candle.” She waved it at him. It promptly fell out of the candlestick.

 He stooped to pick it up, and courteously replaced it in the holder. “An unlit candle—useful!” he observed.

 “For heaven’s sake, I blew it out when I heard you coming.”

 “Too late. I rode cross-country and I saw the light through the windows when I passed the end of the garden. I came straight here from the stables.”

 “I wondered how you knew I was here. It didn’t seem likely anyone should come in by chance at this hour.”

 “Most unlikely, ma’am. So I venture to repeat my question: What are you doing in his lordship’s ballroom?”

 Cornered again, Prudence sighed. “I daresay you will consider me both impertinent and gooseish. I’ve never been in such a splendid house before and I simply wanted to see a grand ballroom.”

 “Now you have seen it, what do you think of it?”

 “To tell the truth,” she confided, “it’s somewhat gaudy. Crimson curtains, royal blue chairs, daffodil-yellow walls, and gilt everywhere. It’s like something a stage-manager might dream up.”

 The gentleman laughed. “How would you decorate a ballroom?” he enquired.

 “Palest blue walls,” said Prudence at once, “the shade of the winter sky on a fine day, with straw-coloured chairs and curtains and everything else white. Nothing to clash with the ladies’ gowns; nothing to draw attention from their ornaments.”

 “I can tell you’ve been pondering the subject. What an unusual actress you are!”

 “Not at all,” she disclaimed hastily. “I’m really quite ordinary. Oh dear, it’s quite dark now. I must go.”

 “Take my arm and I’ll pledge to navigate us both to a safe harbour.”

 A hint of warm intimacy in the way he spoke alerted Prudence instantly. She had been an actress long enough to know what that meant.

 “No, thank you, sir, I believe I can find my own way.” She set out tentatively in the direction of the arch to the anteroom. The white pillars on either side provided landmarks even in the gloom. A thought struck her as she reached the threshold and she turned. His black bulk loomed close behind her. A trifle breathless, she begged, “Pray don’t tell any of the marquis’s family I stigmatized their ballroom as gaudy.”

 “Too late again, Miss Savage,” the tall gentleman drawled, unmistakably amused. “Permit me to introduce myself: Rusholme at your service. Lord Easthaven is my father.”

* * * *

 With a smile, the Earl of Rusholme watched the young woman scurry away. As soon as they reached a lamplit passage, she had put on speed and dashed ahead, leaving him sauntering after.

 He still had not seen her face, but her figure was trim enough, even in the sober gown more suited to abigail than actress, and though tall she moved with a sprightly grace. Her short, curly hair glimmered in a halo not quite red, rather the tawny colour of autumn beech-leaves.

 Delightful—and he was tiring of Yvette, who grew more rapacious every time he visited the small house in Bedford Street.

 Though the little Savage would no doubt turn out as avid for expensive gifts as any of the sisterhood, she was, despite her denial, different from any actress he had ever met. For a start, that gown: he’d like to see her in silks and satins, prior, of course, to seeing her in nothing at all.

 Then there was her speech. Any moderately good actress could ape the accents of the gentry but her vocabulary was another matter.
“Stigmatized as gaudy,”
indeed! Rusholme grinned. Mama’s taste was notoriously
outré
though no one dreamed of saying so in the marchioness’s hearing. He would not betray the girl’s candid judgment.

 She had refused to take his arm. A little coyness did her no harm in his eyes. Perhaps she had a jealous lover from whom he’d have to woo her, or perhaps she was simply teasing, leading him on. Either suggested a practised Paphian, which suited him very well. Given that few actresses earned a decent living on the stage, nonetheless he had no stomach for beguiling any female onto the primrose path. Nor had he any desire to teach an inexperienced ladybird the tricks of her trade.

 His pleasant ruminations on the joys of a new mistress cut off when he heard voices in the entrance hall ahead. He was tempted to escape up the back-stair to his chamber. However, he had promised his parents to be on hand to greet their guests and he was already late, due to Salamander’s cast shoe. Best make his excuses before removing the travel-dirt from his person.