His Dark Enchantress (Books We Love Regency Romance) (17 page)

“Lucius,” she whispered. “Where are you?”

CHAPTER 1
3

“I must be all about in my head,” Lucius muttered as he sat the razor backed chestnut he’d hired in Honiton and gazed out over Lyme Bay.

A light breeze, laden with the sharp tang of salt, played across his face
. Except for occasional white caps ruffling its deep cobalt surface, the sea lay calm before him under a cloudless, bright blue sky. He watched a fishing smack tack across the bay, its sails billowing, listened to the mewing of gulls as they whirled and wheeled high above him.

Turn left at the crossroads as you come into Sidmouth, an old carrier told him, turn right at the next milestone and you’ll find Baymoor House just down the lane.

And now he was so close. He felt the tired hack drop its hip to rest a hind hoof. It gave him a moment to gather his scrambled thoughts before taking a step he may well come to regret. He could press on, or turn back.

Decision made, he
pressed his heels into the horse’s flanks. The animal stumbled on the loose surface as it picked its way down the steep, wheel rutted lane. On either side of him the banks were thick with purple foxgloves, pink ragged robin and the rich creamy heads of Queen Anne’s lace. Oak trees laced their branches overhead, their glossy dark green leaves rustling softly in the breeze.

At the bottom of the lane
a five barred gate blocked the way, but Lucius manoeuvred the horse alongside, reached over and quickly unlatched it. The cobbled yard in which he found himself was well kept. A stable block and carriage house bordered one side with a barn and cattle shed on the other. At the end of the yard, a large, square stone house faced the bay.

Two mastiffs came running from the stables, scattering the c
hickens scratching amongst the cobbles. Their barking brought a stumbling, shuffling figure in their wake.

As he
dismounted, Lucius looked more closely at the man. Bits of straw and hay seeds were stuck in his hair. His eyes cast wildly about as if he could not focus on any one thing. Saliva trickled from the corner of his mouth. Wordlessly he reached for the horse’s reins.

Lucius quieted the still barking dogs and gave up the horse.

“Be a good fellow and see that he is groomed and well fed. Bag of bones he may be, but he did his best for me this morning.”

The strange man nodded, leaned his head into the horse’s neck and took it away. Lucius patted
its hindquarters as it passed and looked thoughtfully after the man leading it. Something in his features seemed familiar, but how could that be?

Undaunted, he turned towards the house only to find the door had already opened. An elderly gentleman, a shock of white hair crowning his head, regarded him steadily from st
artlingly familiar blue eyes. A shawl draped his shoulders and under it he appeared to be wearing a nightshirt. His thin legs stuck out from beneath the hem. Worn leather slippers encased his feet and he leaned heavily on a sturdy cane.

Lucius approached with the
placated dogs at his heels.

“Good morning,” he said conversationally. “I’m looking for Sir Miles Devereux. Do you know where I
might find him?”

“You’ve found him,” huffed the old man. “What do you want?”

“To ask for your grand-daughter’s hand in marriage, sir.”

Lucius found himself being regarded more carefully.

“The devil you say. Don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

“As a military man I thought you might appreciate the direct approach.”

“Hmph. And just who are you?”

“Lucius Clifton, at your service, sir.” Lucius bowed.

“Hm.” The blue eyes narrowed. “Titled?”

Lucius nodded. “Earl of Avondale.”

“Better come in then.”

Sir Miles went into the house and shuffled down the hallway. Lucius followed with the dogs padding behind him.

“In here,” Sir Miles said.

He led Lucius into a
neat parlour. Even though the day was warm, a cheery fire blazed in the hearth. Sir Miles almost collapsed into one of the leather chairs placed either side of the hearth and Lucius took more notice of his grey, strained complexion and uneven breathing. The mastiffs pressed against their master’s aged legs and Sir Miles pushed them away.

“Brandy! Bottle! Lie down,” he growled
. He caught Lucius’ raised eyebrow and chuckled. “Don’t ever let your grand-daughter name your dogs.”

“I’ll remember that advice, sir.”

“Come far?”

“Rode from Honiton this morning.”

Sir Miles nodded. From the table beside his chair he picked up a brass hand bell and swung it with as much vigour as he could muster. In answer to the summons, wiping her flour covered hands on a towel, a comfortably rotund lady wearing cap and apron appeared. She stopped when she saw Lucius.

“Beg pardon, sir, I didn’t hear the door.”

“That’s because he didn’t knock. I opened it for him when I heard the dogs.”

“Have you been outside, Sir Miles? You know doctor doesn’t want you exerting yourself.” She spoke with a warm burr in her voice and a look of consternation crossed her face.

“Don’t fuss, Peggy.” Sir Miles sat back as Peggy wrapped a blanket around his bare legs. “Just bring some refreshment for our visitor. I swear he’ll conduct his business better with a goodly portion of your pigeon pie inside him.”

Although Lucius protested, the woman went off with a nod of her head. He heard noises from the kitchen, a murmur of voices, the chink of plates, the
splash of liquid being poured. When Peggy returned she carried a tray laden with the pie, a selection of cold meats, cheese, warm bread and a dish of golden yellow butter. Lucius’ mouth watered and his stomach gurgled in anticipation.

A
bent, grey haired man with dark, sharp eyes followed Peggy. He carried a flagon in one hand, a tankard in the other.

“Thank ‘ee, Partridge,” Sir Miles said. “P
our his Lordship a drink, if ye will.”

Lucius thanked them both and set upon his meal with relish. Th
e pie crust, light and flaky and covering a delicious mix of pigeon, mushrooms and onions in their own rich gravy, crumbled under his knife. A ripe, creamy cheese sat in the centre of an oval platter with tender looking slices of beef on one side of it, and lamb spiked with rosemary and garlic on the other. He swiped a knife across the bread and sighed with satisfaction as the butter melted into the crust.

Sir Miles watched him steadily.

“So how do you know my Emmaline?” he asked when Lucius wiped his mouth and fingers with the napkin provided and pushed his plate away.

“She and my sister were at school in Bath together. Emmaline came to my house in London looking for Juliana but found me instead.”

“Do you love her?”

Did he? Lucius
had considered this question and his motives since meeting her. That he wanted her in the worst way was undeniable, but did that constitute love? He thought of his parents and Caroline and her husband, of their quiet devotion to each other and the happiness that exuded from them. That was something he wanted for himself and was sure he could achieve with Emmaline.

“Yes, I
believe I do.”

The
time it took for him to respond, and the tone in which he responded had Sir Miles waggling his bushy white eyebrows as he drew them together in a fierce frown.

“And I wager you don’t like it above half,” he grunted
from behind an equally bushy moustache.

A wry smile
curved Lucius’ mouth. “Let us say it was most unexpected and I am still processing the experience.”

“So apart from giving my consent, what else do you want?”

“You’re very astute, sir.”

“Didn’t get to command an army by being backward,” Sir Miles said.

Lucius sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. The questions he wanted to ask might not be appreciated, bordering as they did on personal and possibly national issues.

“I accompanied Emmalin
e to a musical soiree,” he began, “where the Prince of Wales was also a guest. He paid Miss Devereux a pretty compliment, mentioned an army of wounded warriors and said England saluted her. What can you tell me about that?”

“Did you not ask her?”

Lucius shook his head. “We have not had sufficient time together since for it to be appropriate of me to enquire, and I suspect she would not wish tell me.”

He said no more, not wanting
Sir Miles to know that he had not seen Emmaline for several days.

“Hmm.” Sir Miles’s chin sunk onto his thin chest. “Trust Prinny to open his mouth and put his foot in it, so to speak. Man was always something of a liability when it came to military matters. He was happier with his Pavilion and Mrs. Fitzherbert.” He paused for breath before fixing a stern eye on Lucius again. “So what do you know of my family, my boy?”

“Very little, sir.” Lucius said. “I know of your military successes, of course. I know that your only son, Emmaline’s father, died at Salamanca. I know your sister runs an honest house in Knightsbridge, where it has been my pleasure to visit but, beyond that, nothing.”

For a moment their flow of conversation stopped as Peggy arrived with a steaming mug.

“Time for your posset, Sir Miles.” She handed the potion to her master and stood back, eyeing the look of displeasure creasing his face. “No arguing now, remember what Dr. Ferryman said.”

“Damn you and damn the doctor and damn this posset,” grumbled Sir Miles, but drained the mug and handed it back.

“And I’d thank you, my Lord,” Peggy turned to Lucius, “to not keep Sir Miles talking for long. He needs his rest.”

“Go away, woman, and leave us be.”

Peggy went away in a rustle of skirts and indignation.

“Now, where were we?” Sir Miles settled back in his chair and drew the shawl more closely about his shoulders.

Lucius watched him for a moment before getting up and placing two fresh logs on the fire.

“Thank ‘ee, my boy. Getting old is not for the faint of heart.” He coughed and wheezed and closed his eyes. “Give me a moment.”

Lucius regained his seat. “I can come back later, sir, if it would suit you.”

The old man cackled. “Later I may be dead. No, you sit there and just let me get my breath.”

Waiting patiently, Lucius surveyed the old soldier. He retained his hair to an extraordinary degree but his face was weathered and deeply creased. Pain etched itself into those creases and folds of tired skin hung beneath his eyes. When he opened them, their clarity and fierce intelligence struck Lucius again. He could see from where Emmaline inherited her looks and mind.

“I’ll tell you as much as I can,” Sir Miles said, “but it may take time, so be patient.”

His eyelids dropped and Lucius sat back. The dogs lay on the rug in front of the hearth snoring gently and the fire crackled as the flames licked up the fresh logs. A clock set back on a sideboard ticked loudly. At last Sir Miles cleared his throat.

F
rom his experience of many families, the story was one with which Lucius could identify. A son who, sadly, showed no interest in following in his father’s military footsteps. A son, more interested in studying astrology and science than learning to manage the estate he was to inherit.

“When he followed his interests to the Irish College in Salamanca,” Sir Miles continued, “I gave up. I
put the property in trust to make sure my son could do no harm to it. But then he met and married Maria Teresa Torres.”

Lucius waited.

“Fine woman. Dark. Handsome.” Sir Miles shot Lucius a fierce glance from under his bushy brows. “Imagine Emmaline only more so.”

“God forbid,”
Lucius muttered, but Sir Miles heard him and burst into laughter that ended in a wheezing cough.

“Exactly.” Sir Miles took up his tale again. “Maria Teresa made a man of my son. He grew up. And I began to
see that his books, his waywardness, all served as a shield to a fine mind. While I worried about moving my men about the Peninsula in the most efficient way possible, Charles studied the tactics of the ancient Etruscans, Greeks and Romans and made suggestions which I could not refute. Ever heard of Intelligence Officers?”

“I believe I have, Sir Miles. Brave men
, who rode behind enemy lines collecting information of troop movements to bring back to their commanders.”

“Near enough.” Sir Miles closed his eyes and Lucius waited patiently, listening to the old man’s heavy breathing with some alarm.

“Charles became a good soldier, a clever soldier because men respected him. Any idea what happens to wounded and maimed soldiers, my boy?”

Lucius frowned. “Not very much, from what I understand.”

“Exactly.” Sir Miles nodded vigorously. “Good men, good lads, all of them. Thrown aside, for the most part, by King and country. Little or no recognition for their bravery. Some were cared for at the Chelsea Hospital but many found their families turned their backs on them because they could no longer work. But Charles had an idea.”