The Passionate Prude

by Elizabeth Thornton

  The blaze of sunlight in the courtyard blinded his eyes and he put his head down to avoid its penetrating glare. What he needed to clear his befuddled senses, he suddenly decided, was a brisk ride across hill and dale. There was no Deirdre to accompany him, but he would be very happy, so he assured himself, to make do with O’Toole. His spirits lifted a little. His groom was one worthy on whose loyalty he could always count.

  As he made his way toward the gatehouse, his eyes lifted involuntarily to the North Tower and the ramparts where he had very nearly lost his Deirdre. He stilled as the memory of that night came rushing back. His mouth went dry and his heart began to race against his ribs.

  That night, and its aftermath, had been worse than any in his five years as a soldier. To risk his own life was one thing, but for Deirdre to put herself in such jeopardy was something he would not tolerate. He would throttle her first before he would let her put him through an experience like that again!

  He had managed to keep her name out of the inquest, nor had she or Armand been placed anywhere near the scene of the “accident” since he and Landron had spirited them away before anyone had thought to take a look on the battlements. The shot that had come from O’Toole’s pistol was easily accounted for. Rathbourne had explained to the coroner that he had fired it to call off the searchers when he found his young brother-in-law safe but decidedly the worse for drink in the castle keep. Young bucks, he had intimated confidentially, weren’t always wise enough to inform their elders of their movements and the ladies were always apt to panic when their fledglings left the roost. His own trifling wound he had dismissed as a prank that had gone wrong, or at the very worst, a minor misdemeanor—and he had no intention of bringing the unfortunate perpetrator to book for something that was very obviously an accident.

  The coroner had brought in a verdict of accidental death, a foregone conclusion in light of the evidence that Tony Cavanaugh was used to enjoying a quiet smoke on the ramparts before turning in whenever he stayed at Belmont. It was surmised that he was trying to light his cigar from the lantern when it shattered and sprayed him with burning oil. And so the good name of Tony and all the Cavanaughs had been preserved.

  It was after the inquest that Deirdre had quietly packed her bags and had taken off for Marcliff with Armand. He was willing to own that he had expected some kind of set-down for his coldness of manner in the few days since his cousin’s death, but that was because she had damn near murdered him—the husband who adored her—with that ugly brute of a pistol she had picked up at Waterloo.

  He was on the point of moving off when his eye was caught by the sun’s reflection on some object that lay at the edge of the tower. It was Deirdre’s pistol. No one had given it a thought since the night of Cavanaugh’s death. He picked it up and remembered how calmly Deirdre had aimed it at his heart. God how that memory would haunt him to the end of his days. He clenched his teeth.

  Would she or would she not have pulled the trigger if he had laid a hand on her brother? It was a question that tore at his insides, burned his mind, kept him sleepless at nights until he drowned his pain with the insensate solace that was to be found only from a bottle.

  He extended his arm and aimed for the branch of a plane tree some twenty paces away. Would she, or wouldn’t she? His finger curled around the trigger. He cocked the pistol. Would she, or…? He pulled the trigger.

  “Deirdre! Have you read the paper this morning?”

  Deirdre turned from the upstairs drawing room window which gave a clear view of the driveway with its fine avenue of elms to the entrance of Marcliff, and she looked absently at her brother. “What paper?”

  “The Times, of course,” replied Armand with a touch of asperity. He noted the dull eyes and the pallor of his sister’s cheeks and his voice gentled. “You’ll find this of interest. Listen, Deirdre:

  “‘A private ceremony is to take place at St. James on September seventh, at which time The Right Honourable, Major the Earl of Rathbourne, is to be presented with a commemorative sword to mark his outstanding services to King and Country. Rathbourne, who has served with the 7th Hussars for the last five years in Europe, and was seconded to special duties in the war against Napoleon, is credited with running the counterespionage ring which effectively destroyed the reliability of French Intelligence in the months preceding Waterloo.

  “‘Mrs. Maria Dewinters, well-known London actress, who worked closely with the Earl in Spain and latterly in Belgium, is to be thanked personally by the Prince Regent for services rendered to His Majesty.

  “‘The Earl of Rathbourne, readers may remember, was married on June sixteenth, just two days before the glorious Battle of Waterloo, to the former Miss Deirdre Fenton. Mrs. Dewinters is to be married in Paris at the end of this month to Captain Roderick Ogilvie of the Horse Guards. An announcement of the engagement is to be found elsewhere in this edition of The Times.

  “‘May the editors of this periodical be the first to congratulate…’”

  “Let me see that,” exclaimed Deirdre, and she wrested the paper from Armand’s grasp. She read it through twice, then turned the pages impatiently till she found the page with the announcements of forthcoming marriages.

  “God, I feel awful,” said Armand when Deirdre’s eyes finally looked up to meet his. “When I think of what I accused him of with Maria Dewinters in Paris!” He groaned and his head went down to his hands. “Tony Cavanaugh! How could I have let him dupe me like that…from the very beginning! Oh, I hope to God he’s roasting in hell!”

  “Well, Gareth should have said something! How were we to know?”

  “He wouldn’t though. A man like Rathbourne wouldn’t stoop to defend himself from a scurrilous attack on his character. I should have believed better of him! How could I have been so dense! Even in Brussels, I learned how highly the men of the 7th regard him!”

  “What about his hatred of the French?”

  “I got that from Tony Cavanaugh, as well as the story about the two young men he had hanged for desertion! Deserters are shot, not hanged. But Tony had a plausible explanation for everything.”

  “Oh,” said Deirdre softly, and plumped herself down into a chair.

  “I wonder,” said Armand musingly, “if Cavanaugh poisoned Rathbourne’s mind against me in the same way? That would explain some of his antipathy.”

  “I think I’m to blame for the rest.”

  “You?”

  “He didn’t like the way I protected you.”

  “No? Well neither do I, in retrospect. An occasional thrashing when I was a lad might have been the making of me.”

  “Armand!” she protested.

  “It’s true. If I’d had a man like Rathbourne for my guardian in-the last, oh, five years or so, I wouldn’t have pursued my own pleasures quite so hotly nor dragged you into dun territory with me.”

  “Because you’d be terrified to face Rathbourne’s ire?”

  He looked surprised. “Oh no. Because I’d be determined to win his good opinion.”

  It was now Deirdre’s turn to be surprised. “Armand! Do you know what you are saying? It’s true that we’ve misjudged Rathbourne on many points, but I cannot forget, if you can, that if you had been a traitor, he would have arranged an accident for you—or so Tony Cavanaugh said, and Rathbourne did not deny it.”

  “Oh that!” Armand said dismissively, as if the intelligence were of little consequence. “What else should he do with a traitor?”

  Deirdre was appalled. “But you’re my brother!”

  “All the more reason that I meet with an accident. D’you think Rathbourne would take the trouble to protect my good name if I weren’t your brother? I’m obliged to him for his consideration.”

  “This is awful! I cannot believe that you really mean what you are saying.”

  “There, there! I didn’t mean to upset you, but yes, I meant every word. And it’s too bad in you, Dee, if that’s what is keeping you apart from your husband. Try to remember his backgrou
nd. His work was in Intelligence. He’s spent more than five years fighting in a cause he believes in. What do you expect of him?”

  Deirdre had no answer, but she reflected on Armand’s words for the rest of the morning. Armand donned his oldest clothes and went to help the stud groom in the stables, and Deirdre pored over her ledgers. She wondered how things were working out at Belmont and hoped that there had been no backsliding among the servants.

  They were sitting down to a late luncheon when they heard the carriage wheels outside. Armand strode to the window and after a moment said tersely, “It’s Caro.”

  Deirdre was only a minute or so behind Armand as he hastened from the room and descended the narrow paneled staircase. She followed him at leisure to the front vestibule, and was met by the sight of Caro in Armand’s arms, sobbing wildly, and a sheepish O’Toole, hat in hand, standing irresolute in the doorway. At the sight of Deirdre, a look of patent relief crossed his face.

  “Oh Armand, don’t send me back to that horrid, horrid place,” sobbed Caro uncontrollably. “Please, oh please let me stay here with Deirdre. I’ll be good, I promise, and I’ll never ever disobey you again, word of honor!”

  “There, there, darling,” said Armand soothingly, and then trenchantly, “If Rathbourne has been threatening you in any way, he’ll have me to answer to.”

  So much, thought Deirdre with a touch of cynicism, for the short-lived desire to win his admired brother-in-law’s approval. “Armand, take Caro upstairs and offer her some refreshment,” she said a little dryly but with commendable composure, though she trembled to think what might happen if Rathbourne was hot on the heels of his runaway sister. “I’ll be there in a minute or so.”

  As soon as they had turned the half landing, Deirdre turned on O’Toole. “What’s this about, O’Toole?”

  He looked down at the toes of his black boots and said rather shamefaced, “It’s the master, Miss Deirdre. And sure if he hasna been in one of his black moods since you left us! There’s no reasoning with him. Most of the time he’s in his cups, and in a devil of a temper. He’s not eating; he doesn’t trouble to change his clothes or look to his appearance. He’s threatening to put the young miss in a convent. You’ll not be surprised to hear, will you, that I couldna turn away the lass when she begged me to bring her to you?”

  “But her mother…”

  “…has gone to Bath to get away from Belmont. There’s no one there for Lady Caro to confide in but the servants.”

  “Oh dear. What’s to be done?”

  “You couldna see your way to sending the young lady to her mother in Bath, could you, miss?”

  “Will you take her, O’Toole?”

  A look of regret crossed O’Toole’s face. “I’m sorry. Miss Deirdre. That I couldna do. The master would never forgive it. Perhaps it were better if someone else could do the honors? I took the precaution of bringing Lady Caro’s maid. She’s in the carriage. The coachmen are impatient to be off. You see,” he added by way of explanation, “they’re good lads but they know the Earl’s temper, and he’ll not be more than a couple of hours behind us.”

  “But O’Toole, if he’s only an hour or two behind you, he’ll soon catch them up. D’you think it’s wise…”

  O’Toole’s smile verged on the apologetic. “I was hoping, Miss Deirdre, that you could throw the master off the scent.”

  “Throw him off the scent?” she echoed foolishly.

  “Give him the wrong directions.”

  “You mean, lie to my husband?” she asked on a note of alarm.

  “Or, if you prefer, find some way to delay him. I think it would be very easy for you to do.”

  Deirdre looked into the shrewd eyes of her husband’s groom. “Oh,” she said, and her eyes dropped. After an infinitesimal pause, her eyes lifted, and O’Toole observed with no little relief that their expression was speculative rather than hostile.

  “I daresay I can think of some way to make him linger,” she said with a casualness that deceived no one. “He’s very fond of a game of cards.”

  “A game of cards might just do the trick, Miss Deirdre,” intoned O’Toole musingly, “if, that is, the stakes were such as to interest his lordship. With a bit o’ luck, he might even be persuaded to stay the night.”

  Deirdre colored slightly but said with a candor which completely disarmed the groom, “Much as I would wish it, that doesn’t seem likely. His skill is formidable. I could never hope to beat him.”

  “Never beat the master? Never say so! I know a thing or two that will even up the odds. I’d be more than happy to show you, miss.”

  The corners of Deirdre’s mouth lifted imperceptibly and she linked her arm with O’Toole’s. “What’s your Christian name?” she asked shyly, and she directed their steps to the kitchen door at the end of the hall.

  “Patrick, miss. Why d’you want to know?”

  “Pat! It has a nice ring to it. Naturally, I would never use it public. That would be an impertinence. But when there’s no one around to hear us, I don’t see why we can’t be the best of friends, do you?”

  O’Toole’s eyes softened. This girl definitely had a way with her. No wonder his lordship was besotted. “It would make me very happy to hear my name on your lips,” he said with unaccustomed gallantry, “except,” he amended with a swift return of caution, “in the master’s hearing.”

  “Oh! That goes without saying,” and with a confident swish of her skirts, Deirdre led the admiring groom to the best dinner he had consumed in a fortnight.

  In the upstairs parlor, Armand wrested Lady Caro’s viselike grip from his neck and said irritably, “Caro! Behave yourself! Your conduct resembles more that of a lightskirt than the gently bred lady of quality that you are. Now sit down and compose yourself.”

  He straightened his cravat and watched warily as the lady spun away from him and plumped herself down on a rose damask chair. She removed her high poke bonnet and a cascade of fire spilled in soft waves over her shoulders. He forced his breathing to a slower pace.

  “Well, you should know,” she pouted.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “About lightskirts.”

  The wary expression in his eyes intensified. “I don’t think I follow.”

  “Don’t you?” There was a martial glint in her eye. “You needn’t stand there like Innocence personified—or perhaps I should say, petrified. I’ve had it all explained to me. I think men are disgusting.” She averted her head, and Armand felt a shaft of pure fear penetrate his heart.

  “Caro,” he cried, and in two swift strides, he was before her chair. He kneeled in front of her and possessed himself of her hands. “Caro, darling! That part of my life is over and done with. You cannot think that, loving you, other women would hold any interest for me.”

  She sniffed, and made a halfhearted attempt to drag her hands from his fierce clasp.

  “Caro!” he cried again, and gripped her chin in one hand, forcing her to look at him. “If I don’t have you, I have nothing. Why else am I doing all this?”

  “All what?” she asked pettishly, though the passion in his voice had considerably mollified her.

  “Why, reforming my life—making something of myself, taking a position at the Admiralty under Uncle John’s second cousin; forswearing gaming and duels and—”

  “Lightskirts?” she supplied unhelpfully.

  “I was about to say my boon companions,” he responded through stiff lips.

  “Then lightskirts are still on the agenda?”

  “Caro! You know that’s not what I meant.” There was a note of genuine anguish in his voice, and the lady relented somewhat on hearing it.

  “But Armand, you needn’t go to all these extremes for me. Mama explained it all. When I come of age, I come into a considerable fortune, and Gareth has no control over it once I marry.”

  “I wouldn’t touch a penny of it,” he exclaimed hotly. “Your mother explained it to you?” he asked when the full import of her word
s had penetrated his consciousness. “You can’t mean that she approves of our liaison?”

  “Of course she does.” Caro looked at him in some surprise. “Why shouldn’t she?”

  “Because,” he said morosely, “I have nothing to offer a girl like you.”

  “That’s preposterous!”

  “Oh?” He looked to be unconvinced.

  She put out a tentative hand and touched his lips. “Mama explained that to me too,” she said softly. “You’d never know it, but she’s dreadfully romantic. Love! Mama believes in it. She says that we Cavanaughs are fated to love only once. We have a history, so it seems, of single-minded devotion to only one person. We’re like swans. When a Cavanaugh finds that his love is unrequited, the consequences are often tragic. I never knew before that my father pursued my mother for five years. She hated him. He finally abducted her and she was forced to marry him. It was only later that she came to love him.”

  He took her hand and kissed it passionately. “The St. Jeans’ history is quite different. But I mean to change that.”

  She said nothing, but there was a question in her eyes.

  “I learned only recently that my father, poor wretch, deserted my mother when I was still in short coats. I don’t know why I wasn’t told sooner! It seems that he became infatuated with some mercenary vixen who bled him of every penny he had. When she left him, he was too ashamed to come back to us.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “Your brother told me just before we left Belmont.”

  “Isn’t that just like Gareth! He had no right to—”

  “He had every right,” Armand broke in impatiently. He ran a distracted hand through his hair. “I don’t think I shall ever understand the logic of women! Men are not little boys to be cosseted and protected at every turn. I expected better of Deirdre. If only I had known, I might have been a help to her. Instead of which…” He faltered to a halt, his eyes staring off into space.