“Yes, it is. And how very wet she is,” Polly observed with undisguised relish, for Diana the Huntress had become Diana the Drenched. “What on earth happened to her?”
“Well, it’s a tale that’s bound to please you,” Dominic replied, and told her about the bees.
Polly giggled and clapped her hands. “Oh, how wonderful. I wish I’d seen it. What a pity she didn’t get a single sting.”
“What a very unsympathetic soul you are. Miss Peach,” he murmured.
She gave him a look. “If you defend her, I shall never speak to you again.”
“One cannot defend the indefensible,” he said softly, and pulled her close once more.
* * * *
The wedding of Miss Polly Peach and Sir Dominic Fortune took place two days later by special license. Harry Dashingham was the best man, and Hordwell proudly gave his niece away. The occasion passed without Bath society realizing, because the
monde
had too much else to rattle about, what with the review, the ball, and now the shambles of Sydney Gardens. Newspapers, drawing rooms, hotels, and Pump Room rang with the shocking events, although everyone was very careful not to mention them in the hearing of the Duke and Duchess of York. The duchess was now said to be so prostrate with shock that she would have to take the cure in its most strict and arduous form, and the duke was rumored to be so angry about being elbowed aside by Georgiana that he saw to it she would in future be banned from every royal function. The Marquess of Hightower proved to be no St. George to this particular damsel in distress. He had fallen quite out of love with her, and was now comforting himself in the company of Lady Margaret Danety-Sprigg-Muslyn, a rather pretty but empty-headed creature who was probably perfect for him.
Lord Benjamin was the object of much ridicule for having been found virtually in his birthday suit, and ever afterward was to be known as Birthday Ben. Not that he was around to hear his new nickname, for the duns had swiftly seen to his arrest, and by the time Polly and Dominic said their vows, he was already languishing in a Bath bridewell. The name of Hordwell Horditall figured high upon his long list of creditors.
On the day after Halloween, the page of Nostradamus arrived by letter carrier, and Ragwort burned it immediately. The vigilant brownie had been awaiting the post every day, and the moment something arrived that had been posted in France, he knew what it must be. As the sheet of paper for which Lord Benjamin had paid so much went up in flames. Ragwort shuddered to think what might have happened to Nutmeg had it arrived a few days earlier.
Hordwell was delighted with the outcome of everything. His feathers had been considerably ruffled by his ignominious imprisonment on Lord Benjamin’s bed, but a decanter or so of good cognac had put him in the happiest of glows, albeit with the promise of a rotten head come the morning. He quickly left 1 Royal Crescent and joined Polly at the Sydney Hotel, where a second room had conveniently become available. A few discreet inquiries soon elicited the information that Lord Benjamin had indeed been lying about his elder brother’s supposed disinheritance, and Hordwell regarded Dominic as an excellent consolation prize, because his wealth—if not his title—was greater than the duke’s. Polly’s uncle was satisfied that her husband was a most excellent and worthy fellow; indeed to hear him speak of his new nephew-in-law was to wonder if Dominic was a blend of King Arthur and the Archangel Gabriel! From the Sydney Hotel, he went to Dominic’s residence on Royal Crescent, where his happiness was completed by the safe return of his valuables.
Nutmeg had been rescued within minutes of the belt’s recovery; indeed she’d been waiting on the doorstep on Halloween, when all the victorious brownies, with Bodkin in the lead, had poured along Royal Crescent. She joyfully consented to marry him, and Caraway so forgave Ragwort that
she
proposed to
him.
As a result, on the day that Polly and Dominic married, there was also a double brownie ceremony beneath the mulberry tree in Dominic’s garden.
The pumpkin jack-o’-lantern had been rescued from the towpath and had pride of place at the brownie nuptials, serving as the altar upon which the four tiny wedding bands were placed. As a wedding present for them, Dominic hired Zuder’s shop for the night, and every brownie in Bath was invited to the feast. Come the morning there wasn’t a single item of confectionery left. Crumbs remained, of course, heaps of them, and spilled honey, smears of cream, blobs of jelly, and numerous other lamentable examples of how brownies should not behave, but it had to be said that a good time was certainly had by one and all.
While the Zuder’s party was in full swing, Polly and Dominic slipped between the sheets as man and wife. She lay back, her golden hair spilling over the pillow. “Do you think the brownies are having fun?” she asked.
“I don’t know, but we are about to, my lady,” he whispered, leaning over her. “I adore you. Lady Fortune,” he whispered, bending his head to kiss the soft curve of her breast.
“Lady Fortune. How wonderful that sounds ...” she breathed, closing her eyes with pleasure.
Outside in the garden, the pumpkin shone beneath the mulberry tree. Bodkin had crept back from the party to light it. He didn’t care that Halloween was over. It just seemed fitting that tonight of all nights his magic jack-o’-lantern should be lit.
Copyright © 1999 by Sandra Heath
Originally published by Signet (0451198409)
Electronically published in 2008 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.