The Lily Brand

by Sandra Schwab

  Another sip of ruby-red wine. It almost looked like blood, Lillian found. She twirled the liquid in her glass, stared at the tiny red waves.

  “I would want my future…” The hectic blotches lit up his cheeks once more. “…my… I would want you to know…” He squirmed, his eyes darted away, this way and that. Then suddenly they fastened on something beyond Lillian’s shoulder. His face broke into a relieved smile. He straightened his posture. “And here he is. As promised.” He waved, an enthusiastic young man, full of eagerness to please. “Troy! Over here!”

  Lillian watched the glow spreading over his whole face, and for a moment she felt something like envy. That he had this. In the next moment, though, she stood and smiled prettily and turned toward the man who had just entered the refreshments room. Black dragons curled on the walls on each side of him as he strode toward them, tall and broad-shouldered, as graceful as a big cat.

  Lillian smiled and smiled as the candlelight kindled fires in a shock of auburn hair, fashionably tousled. Smiled as familiar cornflower-blue eyes turned on her, as recognition flared and kindled hatred, twisting his strong-boned face into an ugly mask.

  Beaming, Perrin turned to her. “Lady Lillian, may I present my cousin, Murgatroyd Sacheverell, fifth Earl of Ravenhurst.”

  Lillian smiled and smiled, even as her glass shattered on the floor, spilling wine everywhere, ruby-red droplets blooming on polished wood just like blood would do. She smiled as the floor rose to meet her, as darkness held out its arms and swallowed her up.

  Chapter 5

  In the upper floor of White’s, Troy stood at one of the high windows and watched the bustle of the morning shopping activities in St. James’s Street below. Fashionable gentlemen in pursuit of coats and hats and snuff boxes and cravats, sometimes a military man proudly displaying a bright red uniform. Troy never wore his uniform these days, even though Alex had tried to convince him that the ladies would be mad for it.

  Alex…

  Troy clenched his jaw and thumped his fist against the white window frame. Where was that young fool?

  “My lord?” Miraculously, as if out of thin air, the Incomparable George Raggett, the Master of the House, appeared at his side. “Shall I have some refreshments sent up? Scotch? Bourbon?”

  When Troy had been first elected to White’s, barely twenty, it had still been the efficient Martindale who would solicitously inquire after one’s wishes. At the time, the elegance of the club had impressed Troy, young fop that he had been. He remembered how he had stroked his hand over the soft leather of the deep, comfortable chairs, how he had stared when Brummell held court in the morning room below. How he had wished to belong to that group, to the pinks of the ton.

  Grimly, Troy shook his head. “No. No, thank you. Has my cousin arrived already?”

  “The Viscount Perrin, my lord? I’m afraid not, my lord.”

  “Parsanbleu…” Troy suppressed the rest of the obscenities that he had in mind right now. “It is all right, Raggett, thank you.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  Alone once again, Troy took a deep breath. At this time of day the club was almost deserted, the last gamesters having left the establishment just a few hours ago. Most gentlemen would return after lunch, to meet friends, to discuss politics, but, more likely, to gamble away their fortunes. Or to bet.

  Troy threw an incensed look at the bedraggled leather-bound volume that rested on the nearest side table.

  Damn the young fool, that greenhead of his cousin!

  “Benêt,” Troy murmured. “Pauvre nigaud.” Behind him, the door opened, yet he did not pay it any attention. Instead he punched his fist against the window frame once more. “Merde!”

  The deep mumbling voice behind him distracted him. “What does that young fellow think he is doing? Youth has no respect for old traditions. The country will go to ruins, to ruins, I say.” Troy turned and found himself almost face to face with Lord Dudlin, who regarded him from under bushy eyebrows. The older man looked him up and down, then noisily cleared his throat. “Now, my young chap, what do you think you are doing? Trashing the furniture and such alike. Most horrid behavior this!” He wagged his finger under Troy’s nose.

  “My lord.” Troy made a slight bow. The man had been a friend of his father’s, so he owed him respect at least.

  Dudlin squinted at him, and the ensuing frown crumbled his brows, making him look like an annoyed badger. “What’s your name, young fellow? Your name?”

  “Murgatroyd Sacheverell, my lord.”

  “Sacheverell, eh?”

  “Fifth Earl of Ravenhurst.”

  “Ravenhurst! I knew a Ravenhurst once. A dashing young fellow he was, that particular Raven.” Dudlin poked a finger into Troy’s chest. “He stole my mistress. Little Sally. Stole her right away from under my nose. And I couldn’t even call him out for it. For who’s going to call out a man over a mistress? Not to be done, this.” Sadness clouded his face, as he shook his head. “No, not to be done.” Suddenly, his expression lightened. “But I took 10,000 guineas from him at the card table the following week.” Cackling, he rapped Troy’s arm with his walking stick.

  Troy gave him a bland smile. He was not in the mood right now to hear about his father’s amorous liaisons.

  Luckily for him, the door to the room opened once more and revealed a rosy-faced Viscount Perrin. “Troy, here you are! Raggett told me you’ve been waiting for ages.” Rather belatedly he seemed to become aware of the presence of Lord Dudlin. He bowed, the perfect dandy from the top of his carefully groomed curls, au coup de vent, to the tips of his shining black boots. “Good morning, my lord.”

  Dudlin peered at him thoughtfully. “And who might you be, young fellow?”

  Troy watched as his cousin opened and closed his mouth, his face a study of stupefied amazement. Like a carp. Troy frowned. Un carpeau zinzin. Grinding his teeth, he said, “Would you excuse us, my lord?”

  Dudlin’s face darkened like a thundercloud. “This will not do, young fellow.” Clearly affronted, he whacked his walking stick against Troy’s arm. “To be dismissed in one’s own house, not to be done, this! There’s no respect in these unlicked cubs these days, no respect!”

  Troy halted the walking stick in mid-strike. “You are still at White’s, my lord,” he pointed out patiently.

  “At White’s?” Dudlin’s eyebrows rose, furry little animals skittering up his forehead. “How curious! How can this be?” He tugged at his walking stick, and Troy obligingly released it. “Are you quite sure about this?”

  “Quite sure, my lord.”

  All at once, Dudlin’s expression cleared and a beaming smile appeared on his face. “Well, that explains it, then. That’s why I couldn’t find my library. Ridiculous this, isn’t it, not to be able to find one’s own library. Well, well, then… I should go home now, before the Doodle-Chick becomes too worried.” He leaned toward Troy and whispered confidentially: “That’s my wife. I call her the Doodle-Chick. Always makes her quite mad. You won’t tell anybody, will you?”

  “I won’t, my lord,” Troy assured him gently. “But you should really go home now.”

  “Yes, yes, I believe I should. Good day to you, sir. Good day.” Swinging his walking stick, Dudlin walked out of the room. “At White’s. Still at White’s. How very curious. And here I am, looking for my library…” The door closed behind him. His footsteps and muttering voice faded as he walked down the stairs.

  “Dear me.” Alex straightened his cravat, the bulky Mailcoach knot making him look like an oversized turkey. “The fellow becomes queerer with each passing year. I’d rather be shot myself than walking around in such a fashion as him. And what a quiz he is!”

  Troy gritted his teeth. And what a greenhead you are! A foppish young fool… Why couldn’t his cousin show some more consideration for an aging man? Compassion for a fellow human being who had been a great man in his youth? But no, his head was filled with rubbish about fashionable living; he was a jingle-brained
cub about town, concerned about fashion and fooleries and—

  Troy’s gaze fell on the leather-bound book on the side table.

  His head whipped up, and his eyes bored into his young cousin. “And where have you been?” he asked, carefully pronouncing each word.

  Alex’s round face registered surprise. “Why, at Larkmoor’s, of course.”

  “At Larkmoor’s?” Troy felt as if his head was going to burst any moment.

  “Of course.” Alex sniffed. “After this dreadful fainting fit last night, I had to inquire after Lady Lillian.”

  Yes, Troy’s head was going to burst for sure. “At this time of day? Are you out of your mind?”

  Alex sniffed some more. “There’s no reason for you to roar like… like a wild lion.”

  “It’s not yet one o’clock, you fool!” Troy’s voice reverberated in the room. “Do you want to let everybody think you’re engaged to her?” He grabbed the book from the side table and shoved it against his cousin’s chest. “They’re already placing bets on you and the chit!”

  “Really?” Alex’s face lit up like a lantern. “I’ve never had anybody placing bets on me. What do they say?” He started to thumb through the pages of the old book.

  “Christ!” Troy ran both of his hands through his hair. “Don’t be such a goose, Alex!”

  “What?” His cousin threw him a quick look, but was already distracted the next moment. “Ahh, here it is: ‘Mr. Brummell bets Captain Capel one hundred guineas that the Viscount P. marries the Marquis of L.’s granddaughter within three months from this day.’ Did you know that Brummell is rumored to be broke?”

  Troy’s hands twitched with the urge to slap his cousin. “I do not care what Brummell is rumored to be about! He might jump into the Thames if he so pleases! But I do care that everybody seems to have linked you with the Marquis of Larkmoor’s granddaughter!”

  Oh yes, Troy knew all about being linked with the Marquis of Larkmoor’s granddaughter. He well remembered the click of the chain that had fastened on the ring around his neck. A dog, he had been. A dog on a leash.

  Round blue eyes blinked at him. “Well, but…” Alex’s gaze darted back to the pages of the book. His brows furrowed. “Why, look at that! The cheek! ‘Sir J. Copley bets Lord Alvanley eighty guineas that in case of a marriage with Lady L., the Viscount P. freezes to death during his wedding night.’” His chubby cheeks flushed ominously. “I will call him out for this! I swear I will call him out for this! Both of them! How can they? They should be ashamed, they—”

  Troy gripped his shoulders, hard, and shook him like a young puppy dog. “Be quiet, Alex, you fool,” he snapped. “How far has it gone between you and that woman? Are you already engaged?”

  Alex twisted under the iron grip of Troy’s hands. “What’s the matter with you, coz?” He gave an artificial laugh. “Has the battle-madness come over you?”

  Troy had never come so close to punching his fist into his cousin’s face. He gripped Alex’s lapels and hauled him up, not caring that the voluminous Mailcoach knot nearly choked the young man in the process. “Do not,” he said through clenched teeth, “speak to me of battle-madness ever again. Understood? Now tell me: How far has it come between you and that woman?”

  That woman.

  Whose cold gray eyes had bored into his as the brand had seared his skin with white hot pain. Burning her mark into him as if he were no more than cattle. The mark he was forced to look on each morning and each night; the mark he wished he could cut from his skin so he might forget how he had been robbed of his pride and his self-worth as a man.

  “N-n-n…” Alex gulped, his eyes wide and very blue with fear. “Not f-far. We’re n-n-not yet en-engaged.”

  “You have not yet asked her?”

  Beetroot-red, Alex shook his head as far as his restricted throat would allow. “N-no.”

  “Good.” Disgusted with himself and his cousin, Troy shoved him away. “And you won’t do it, either.”

  Alex coughed and bent over, supporting his hands on his bent knees. Without any hint of regret, Troy listened to his wheezing breaths, the choking sounds he made. Finally, Alex straightened up, eyes streaming, and fumbled with his neckcloth, before he turned his disdainful gaze onto Troy. “You, sir, are out of your mind!”

  Troy narrowed his eyes at him. “That’s fine by me. I don’t care what you think about me as long as you don’t marry that hussy.”

  “I… I…”

  “You have no idea what kind of woman that is, Alex. And I just won’t allow you to marry her.”

  “Go to hell!” Alex spat. “I will not take commands from you, a madman! And I won’t stand by hearing you slighting Lady Lillian!” His face still very red, he fumbled with his fine leather gloves until he had worked one free.

  Troy anticipated his next move, and before Alex could slap his face with the glove, Troy gripped his wrist. “Don’t do this, Alex.”

  A muscle jumped in his cousin’s cheek. “I demand satisfaction.”

  Fool, fool.

  The years of his military training, the years at war enabled Troy to wipe his face clear of any expression. “Well, that’s your poor luck, coz,” he drawled, “because I won’t fight a duel with you.”

  Even darker color stained his cousin’s cheeks. “Then I will tell everybody that you are a coward.”

  Troy shrugged. “Then do it.” Schooling his face into an expression of contempt, he released Alex’s wrist and stepped back. He raised an eyebrow. “Do it.”

  Trembling, Alex lifted his chin in a show of defiance. “We are through with each other. Do not darken my doorstep again.” With a whoosh and a click of his spurs, he swirled around and marched out of the room, head held high.

  Do not darken my doorstep again. Troy snorted. God, was his cousin into these gothic novels? “Fool,” he murmured. “Sot.”

  Unconsciously, his hand strayed to his left leg, rubbing the thigh that was now peppered with scars instead of lead. Now that the ersttime wounds had been cleaned, the leg hurt only occasionally and the limp had almost gone.

  “God…” Tiredly, Troy passed his hand over his forehead, registering the dampness at his temples.

  This had not gone well.

  Damn it, but why must his cousin choose that woman of all the young girls who scrambled through London’s ballrooms?

  The memory of the ghostly pale oval of her face taunted him, the memory of her eyes, those ice-cold eyes, watching, watching, watching, boring into him as the hated lily was burnt into his flesh—

  With a roar, he drove his fist against the wall.

  No, he could not let Alex marry her. Never. But trust his cousin to do something foolish, something overhasty. Like running to Larkmoor’s tomorrow and asking. It did not bear thinking about.

  Troy narrowed his eyes.

  He needed to act. Fast. If he could not get through to his cousin, well, perhaps he should try the other party. After all, she had a lot to lose, hadn’t she? He would bet his right arm that her grandfather did not know the details of her past. The Marquis of Larkmoor had always been an honorable man.

  He would talk to her. Tonight.

  Tonight…

  When the haut ton assembled at Almack’s for the most boring ball in London.

  ~*~

  After making some discreet inquiries—yes, Lady Lillian Abberley had indeed been presented with one of the coveted vouchers—Troy climbed the stairs to the entrance of Almack’s Assembly Rooms at ten-thirty later that day. His valet had worked a minor miracle by providing him with a pair of knee breeches at short notice, even if they were a rather ill-fitting pair. Knee breeches, a funny pair of silken socks, a snowy white cravat and a dark dress coat with long, batwinged tails—that was the uniform for the seventh heaven of the fashionable world.

  Knee breeches. Troy snorted. He felt like a fop. Yet his valet had insisted on this attire, especially since Troy had neither voucher nor ticket that would grant him entrance to the innermost haven of
London society. If his master should fail, the trusty valet had said, it should at least not be due to faulty attire.

  Troy gritted his teeth. He would not fail. Rather more forcefully than intended, he rapped his walking stick against the door. Another thing that his valet had provided him with: a ridiculous golden-knobbed walking stick and an even more ridiculous-looking hat, which was high enough to make even the people of Babylon jealous.

  The door opened and a small, wiry man peered up at him. “Good evening, my lord.”

  Troy lifted his lips in what he hoped looked like a smile. “Good evening… Willis, isn’t it?”

  “Your ticket, my lord?”

  “My ticket.” Troy sighed and scratched his head. With great show he bent forward and whispered: “I am afraid, sir, that I do not have a ticket.”

  Almack’s Cerberus regarded him stoically. “Then I cannot let you in, my lord.”

  “But I am properly clothed,” Troy protested. “See? Knee breeches!” He wriggled a stockinged leg. “You cannot turn me away because of that as you did with Wellington.”

  Willis cocked his head to the side and blinked. He very much gave the appearance of a man faced with a lunatic straight out of Bedlam. “But Wellington, my lord, had a ticket.”

  Troy gave another tragic sigh and looked up and down the street. For the moment there was no carriage in sight. With a lightning-quick move he had grabbed the other man’s collar. “See, Willis, the thing is this: I’ve been to France, I fought against Napoleon, and believe me, most of the times, it was not a picnic. So now that I want to go up to that ballroom, do you really think you could stop me?”

  “My lord!” the unfortunate Willis choked.

  “Good. I don’t think so either.” Smiling gently, Troy released the doorman, patted his shoulder and stepped around him. Swinging his walking stick in the fashion of a Lord Dudlin, Troy walked up to the great staircase inside. As if struck by an afterthought, he turned around one last time. “Oh, and Willis, if you value your life, you won’t breathe a word of this incident to anybody.”