by Isobel Carr
Leo nodded. “Not Charles himself, but his men, yes. They killed Mrs. Whedon’s footman, and you both saw what they did to the lady and myself.” He waved a hand over his face, past the mottled bruise around his eye and the split and swollen lip.
Sandison tied the letters back up and handed them over with a hard look. “Burn these. There’s nothing in them we’ll need to revisit, and they’re dangerous.”
CHAPTER 9
Viola fumed inside the velvet cocoon of Lord Leonidas’s well-sprung coach. Her maid dozed on the opposite seat, the ruffles of her cap swaying. Leo himself had chosen to ride, thundering along beside them on a glossy blood bay that made the team look like ponies.
Unlike his family’s now-damaged town coach, this one had no coat of arms upon the door. The grooms were dressed in simple, serviceable clothes rather than distinctive livery. They had slipped from the city in the predawn hours, slipping past those of the late-night revelers with anonymous ease.
The sun had risen as they’d sped past Luton. The roads had quickly dried after last night’s storm, making the journey far easier than she’d thought it would be. The lone window was a blur of blue and green, with occasional flashes of her protector’s oatmeal coat, dark queue, and glossy mount.
Viola shifted position, sliding across the plush upholstery to sit closer to the door so she could keep Leo in sight. What was it about a man on a horse? Watching them parade up and down Rotten Row had been a favorite pastime for years. But this was far more satisfactory. An intimidatingly handsome man with an equally splendid mount, the two of them racing, hair and mane flying, and powerful muscles straining.
The attraction was magnetic, as enchanting today as it had ever been. She couldn’t bear to take her eyes off him. Couldn’t help but know, bone deep, that he would touch a woman with every bit as much skill and control.
God, how she wanted to find out.
Any other man would have joined her in the coach. Would have made love to her to while away the drive. Leo had handed her a novel and a loaded pistol and shut her up like a jewel in a box.
Eventually he slid out of her view and she let herself sink back into the corner. The novel Leo had given her still lay open on the seat. Viola picked it up and resumed reading.
Her stomach growled as they clattered into the yard of a coaching inn. The door opened, and Leo practically yanked her from the coach.
“You’ve got as long as it takes to change the horses, to eat, stretch your limbs, and use the necessary. Bing,” he said, calling to the publican by name. The grinning man thrust out his chin by way of acknowledgment. “Get the lady whatever she requires. My men and I will have ale and meat pies. Mrs. Whedon”—he bowed and brushed his lips over her hand—“I’ll return to fetch you in just a few minutes.”
Leo strode off, claiming a tankard of ale as he went, shouting for the ostlers to hurry. The innkeep looked her up and down, the knowledge that she was no lady writ plain upon his face.
“My maid and I shall have tea, and if there’s somewhere I could tidy up…” She let the question hang. Lady or not, welcome or not, Mr. Bing wasn’t likely to risk the future custom of the Vaughns just to put her in her place.
True to his word, Leo reappeared before she’d even had time to finish the small cup of weak tea that had been grudgingly provided. “Wrap the pie in your handkerchief, love; we’re off.”
He hustled her back to the coach, Nance trailing behind them, as if they were in the midst of an elopement and a mob of angry brothers was closing in. The door was already open, the steps let down, awaiting her. The coachman and one of the footmen stood to one side, heads together, a hushed argument raging between them.
“—not a chance. You get it out.”
“It’s your job, Sampson, to see that things like this don’t happen. You get it out.”
“Get what out?” Lord Leonidas’s curt question cut them both off. The footman, Sampson, glanced into the coach and then back at him. Viola craned her neck, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever it was that had caused such consternation.
“It’s-it’s a dog, my lord,” the coachman said. The animal in question jumped from one seat to the other, causing the entire coach to bounce. It flopped down, tongue lolling out as it panted.
“A huge black one, like some sort of monster.”
“Must’ave jumped up when we was changing the horses. And now it’s sitting there like it was the king himself and won’t come out no how.”
“Queen,” Viola said, trying not to laugh.
“What?” All three men looked at her.
“Like she was the queen herself. That’s a bitch.”
“Bitch or dog, it won’t come out of the coach, my lord. When we—”
“I!” the footman insisted testily.
The coachman glared at him. “When Sampson here tried to grab it, it growled and bared its teeth.”
Leo grumbled under his breath and took two steps toward the coach. “Out.” He snapped his fingers and pointed. The dog cocked her head and obligingly leapt down, then trotted over and flopped down at Viola’s feet, catching her skirts beneath it and pinning her to the ground. Nance squealed as though she’d been bitten and hid behind the footman.
Viola tugged at her skirts, but they remained firmly trapped beneath the enormous dog. Her eyes welled as she took in its state. It was dreadfully skinny, mottled with patches of dirt and dried blood. Large patches of fur were missing, and what were clearly bite marks stood out in several places. One ear was caked with scabs. Its stump of a tail was broken in several places, kinking to one side like a pig’s.
A fighter, now groveling at her feet. A creature who did what it had to do to survive. Recognition burned.
The dog rolled over, exposing its belly. Viola knelt and ran her hand over the expanse of soft, pink skin. The dog whined and licked. Viola looked up to find Leo glaring at her, every inch a duke’s son, impatience writ large on every bit of him.
• • •
Leo prayed for patience as he saw Viola’s hand splay protectively over the mangy cur at her feet. She was damn lucky the thing hadn’t bitten her. God only knew what the mongrel’s parentage was, but, at a glance, he’d guess someone’s mastiff had got at the local butcher’s dog and the resulting pups had ended up being used for some sort of blood sport. Bull baiting? Bear baiting? It was impossible to say. Whatever its past, it was no lady’s lapdog.
“My lord?” Her voice was tentative, but the plea in her eyes was easy enough to interpret. Viola was going to keep the damn thing. And nothing he could say was going to dissuade her. The mulish set of her jaw was incontrovertible.
He let his breath out, tasting resignation and defeat. Viola’s hand absently stroked the dog. Its mangled tail churned the dust beneath it.
Leo knocked a bit of mud off the skirt of his coat with his crop and gave in to the inevitable. “I believe my proscribed role is that of he who indulges every whim and fancy. If you want to brave the ride with that beast locked up beside you, who am I to deny you?”
Viola smiled brilliantly, joy leaking out her pores. It hit him like a wave, like something physically manifest rather than an emotion. It infused her whole being and left his chest with a hollow ache behind the sternum. He’d never seen her smile before. Not like this.
This wasn’t the polite smile of a practiced seductress; it was simply her. Pure, true, original, and heartrending. The taint of betrayal was like acid on his tongue.
She stood and, in clear imitation, snapped her fingers and pointed at the coach. “Up, sweetheart. Up!”
The dog heaved itself to its feet and scrambled back into the coach. Viola caught him by the arm, lips brushing his cheek, there and gone before the kiss had even registered.
“Thank you, my lord.”
He simply handed her into the coach, head swimming with the rush of something so simple. She plumped her skirts, spreading them out onto the seat. The dog pushed closer, its enormous head burrowing into her lap.
>
Leo stepped back to allow Viola’s maid to enter, but found that she was instead being boosted onto the seat beside the coachman. “What, Nance, not going to share your seat with the beast of Avon?”
Flustered, back stiff with annoyance, the little maid glared down at him. “I’m not getting anywhere near that animal, my lord. Not if it means my job. You can leave me right here in the yard if it comes to it.”
“It won’t,” he assured her.
Sampson grinned at him as Nance wedged herself in beside the coachman. Leo nodded back at his footman. Sampson always did like them dainty and willful. With a shake of his head, Leo knocked his hat against his thigh and turned back to the open coach.
“My lord?” Viola’s voice trapped him, hand still on the door. “Could you fetch another pie? I’m afraid she’s eaten mine.”
Leo gave in to the moment, laughter impossible to resist. It filled the hollow in his chest and flooded his limbs with warmth. “Handkerchief and all?”
She held up the soggy, chewed scrap of linen and lace that had so recently held a pie.
“I’ll bring you several. I doubt one has satisfied that beast in the slightest, and I’d hate to arrive at Dyrham to discover she’d eaten you, too.”
CHAPTER 10
Washed in moonlight, Dyrham slid into view as Leo broke from the avenue of lime trees that curved from the road to the house. He was home. A nightingale’s call wove through the sound of iron-shod hooves on gravel and the dull grind of the wheels of the coach.
The stone façade of the house, half-mantled in creeping ivy and wisteria, looked almost blue in the night. The large lamps on either side of the door were overshadowed by greenery, but welcoming all the same. Before the coach had even stopped, the front door opened, spilling forth his small staff of servants.
Leo swung down from Meteor’s back, transferring his pistol from holster to pocket as he did so. He tossed the reins to the groom who came running from the stable block and gave the bay a final affectionate slap as the boy led the gelding away.
Tension leaked out of his shoulders. They’d arrived without a single mishap, if one didn’t count Viola’s new pet. Footmen were already disappearing into the house with their trunks as he opened the door to the coach. Viola yawned behind her gloved hand and pushed the sleeping dog off her lap.
“Come along, my dear. I’m sure my staff will have supper ready for us, and arranging for a plate of scraps for your dog should be easy enough.”
“Boudicea.”
“Queen of the Iceni?” Leo’s eye twitched.
“The first warrior queen of England. It seemed appropriate.”
“Beau won’t thank you for that.”
Viola put her hand in his and stepped down. The dog bounded out behind her, and he could have sworn he heard his steward mumble, “Sweet Savior, deliver us.”
“Beau?”
“My sister, Lady Boudicea Vaughn. If she discovers that I have a bitch at Dyrham who shares her name, I assure you there won’t be a safe place in all of Britain for me to hide.”
“We can’t have that, can we?” Viola ducked her head, a grin curling up the edge of her lips.
Leo ushered her into the house, waving back his servants as they stepped forward as if to block the dog from following. He heard Sampson laugh, the groom’s deep basso profondo drowning out Viola’s maid’s indignant protest. His grandfather had always had a dog or three about the place, and though there’d been none here of late, he had no doubt his household would make the necessary adjustments. And so would Viola’s maid.
“Perhaps you’d like to wash the dust, and dog, off,” he added with a laugh, “before we dine?”
• • •
Lord Leonidas’s butler led her to a room that was large and plush. A silk-upholstered settee sat before the fireplace. Matching silk hangings curtained the bed. Everything in pale shades of pink and primrose.
Nance bustled about the room, muttering under her breath.
“Oh, do stop fussing.”
The maid’s head snapped around, and she flushed. “I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s just that between that beast of a dog and that monstrous footman…” She let her voice trail away.
Viola eyed the blush. She’d bet her favorite earbobs that Nance was very well pleased with Sampson’s attentions. She’d seen the smile that had accompanied his pinch and her hand slapping.
Viola pulled down her hair and shook out her curls. Nance was in the process of pinning it back up when Sampson arrived with a pitcher of hot water. He bobbed his head, set it down, and left, while Nance blushed red as a boiled lobster.
“Monstrous, is he?”
“Yes, ma’am. A cheeky devil, too, not above pinching.”
“Quelle horror.”
Nance schooled her temper, her expression shuttered. Viola shooed her away. “Shake out my calico.”
Viola took her time dressing. Lord Leonidas was waiting downstairs, and he was every bit as monstrously cocky as his footman. He’d taken control the moment they’d met and not let the reins slip once.
It couldn’t be allowed to continue.
CHAPTER 11
I was thinking about Hippolyta, or perhaps Penthesilea.”
Leo chewed thoughtfully, nodding. Amazon queens seemed a likely enough namesake for the beast currently sleeping on the rug at her mistress’s feet, a joint bone gnawed to a naked stub beside her.
“Something of a mouthful.” And names that only someone as well versed as his father in the writings of Homer and Smyrnaeus was likely to have dredged up. Who were her people? Most women had quite memorable scandals attached to their debut among the ranks of the fallen, but he could remember nothing of Viola’s story. “Not to mention a name only a scholar could love or pronounce. Was your father a vicar with a penchant for history? A Latin tutor? Can you read Latin and ancient Greek, or do you just know the stories?”
Her face went blank for a moment, panic and something like pain shooting through her eyes. “Yes, my father was a man of the cloth, and yes, I can actually read both Latin and ancient Greek, a good bit of Hebrew as well—but I put myself beyond Christian forgiveness and they cast me off, and there’s an end to it.”
Leo frowned. That wasn’t an ending. That was a beginning, or at least a very muddled middle. Viola dropped her eyes to her plate and pushed the remnants of her meal about with her fork. After a moment, she said with forced brightness, “She could be Polly or Pen for everyday use. Of course this is assuming you don’t have another sister already so christened?”
“No, just the one sister.”
“And one brother, if memory and Debritt’s serve.”
Leo studied her for a moment. The shadows were back beneath her eyes. She looked almost crushed, almost weak. She shook her head slightly and reached for her glass, resolution in the set of her jaw.
“Yes, one brother as well: Alexander William,” Leo said. “Damn lucky to have been born first and got the more unobjectionable names. And he isn’t forced to use them, having been the Marquis of Glennalmond since the moment of his birth, so it seems doubly unfair that he shouldn’t have been burdened with Charlemagne or Battus.”
“Or both.” Viola smiled, the edge of anger and despair seemingly gone, glossed over quite adroitly. The dog scrabbled in its sleep, chasing imaginary rabbits, nails loud upon the floor. “Is it too rude to ask whatever possessed your father?”
Leo sighed and refilled both their wineglasses. He swirled his about, watching the heavy, dark liquid color the glass. Should he give her the full history? “My father was born a younger son. Did you know that?”
She raised her brows inquiringly and sipped her wine by way of answer. The deep burgundy stained the seam of her lips until she licked it away.
Leo blew out his breath in a soft huff, desire flooding out from his groin. “He spent his youth in a classical fog. My mother—God love her—has an equal passion for the histories of England and Scotland. Hence our names: one for father, one for mo
ther, and nearly all of them ridiculous.”
“Except for Lord Glennalmond’s.” The corners of her mouth mocked him with a hidden smile. “What outrage did your mother perpetrate upon you?”
Leo gave her a smile with an edge of teeth. It was inevitable that she would ask. “Roibert, after the Bruce.” He drained his glass and reached for the bowl of nuts and sweetmeats. He plucked a walnut from the pile and cracked its shell between his palms.
He extended the broken nut across the table. Viola took a large piece of the meat, lifting it from his hand with long, pale fingers that ended in polished nails.
“Crushed with your bare hands? Impressive.” She placed his small offering in her mouth, pink tongue darting out to tease him again.
“Just a boy’s trick. I could teach you as easily as my father taught me.”
“Don’t.” She selected another and held it out to him, her grin returning as he broke it neatly in two. “So much more interesting to allow me to go on thinking you as strong as your legendary namesake.”
“If you like.” Leo shrugged. She was flirting. Teasing. Offering… but something didn’t feel quite right. There was a brittle edge to her smile.
She rose, skirts rustling almost imperceptively over the snoring of the dog. She’d changed out of her dusty traveling gown, reappearing for supper in a simple gown of printed cotton. A fichu obscured her décolletage, its two ends primly tucked into her bodice. She tugged them free as she stepped toward him, letting the delicate wisp of embroidered gauze float away as she moved.
“I believe you’d reached my knee when we were interrupted.” Viola swallowed convulsively as she faced Leo down. It was time to act. Time to regain control. She had to return to a scenario she knew how to manage. Allowing Lord Leonidas to continue his game of seduction was too unnerving. Letting him talk, letting him ask questions, was even worse.
And she could manage it… and him. She just had to make the effort, and everything would fall into place. He was just a man, after all.
