Dair Devil

by Lucinda Brant

  Dair swiveled on his toes, hunched over, shoulders shaking and a hand clapped to his mouth to stifle an outburst of laughter. Tears of glee filled his eyes. He turned back to face the black void under the platform when Grasby called to him in a thin high-pitched whisper.

  “Dair? Dair, did you hear me…? You’re laughing! I know it! This isn’t amusing! This is my head on the block!”

  Despite controlling his laughter, Dair could not hide his grin and it sounded in his voice. He wiped tears from his eyes, smudging the soot.

  “No. Not amusing at all! But it’s not your head that’s the concern.”

  “Damn you to hell for getting me in this fix!”

  “Yes. Yes. I’ll be there soon enough. Just put your hands over your gadso and get across the stage and through that door as fast as you can! Make for the carriage. Grasby? Grasby!”

  “Yes! Yes! Door! Carriage! Have a care with Silla. Be gentle. Her nerves. The shock… Are you listening to me, Dair? Dair? Dair! Devil take you! Bloody stupid prank! Bloody…”

  The rest of Lord Grasby’s tirade of abuse was swallowed by the noise of the dancers being herded under protest back onto the platform.

  Dair took a look across the stage to ascertain the position of the soldiers. Most were still in formation awaiting orders. The civilians were still by the door, as was Lady Grasby and the Weasel, and two soldiers guarded the exit. Strange they were positioned there; that was not part of the agreement with the captain. The dancers were all huddled on the stage, and blocked his view of the right side of the studio. He presumed it was Consulata prone on the chaise longue; all he could see of her was a fan fluttering to and fro in agitation above the back of the chaise. And there, standing in the center of the room beside Mr. Cedric Pleasant, was the newssheet reporter, pencil and blotter in hand, looking wide-eyed and interested, as if he had hit on the story of the Season! Dair smiled. He would give him his story all right, and more.

  Finally, he decided it was time to make his move. In farewell, he tugged on a long lock of Rory’s hair, come loose from her mussed coiffure, then stood up and stretched his legs. When she went to do likewise, he signaled for her remain seated, out of sight.

  “Stay here. There’s bound to be blood spilled. Nothing serious, but I don’t want you getting mixed up in the fracas—”

  “Blood? You will be careful, won’t you?”

  He instantly thought of his nine years in the army and the bloody carnage he and his comrades had survived. No one had ever asked him to be careful then, or cared. He laughed harshly, a look over his shoulder to see if he had yet been noticed, and brushed away her apprehension.

  “Not mine! That lot out there. Well, maybe a little drop of mine,” he conceded at her frown of concern. In an impulsive move, he leaned down to her, whispering near her ear, “I’ll be careful, just for you…”

  With his teeth, he tugged free the lavender satin ribbon tied in her disordered hair, chuckling at her sudden intake of breath.

  “Did you think I meant to bite you?” he asked as he hastily tied the satin ribbon to the end of the braid hanging in front of his right ear.

  No. Rory thought he meant to kiss her, and when he did not, was annoyed with herself for such an expectation. It must have shown on her features, because he said with a smile of apology,

  “Every warrior gets his share of the spoils of war. This is mine. Now wish me luck, Delight!”

  She was not given the opportunity to wish him anything at all. He was up out of the gap and onto the stage, standing tall with arms akimbo, before she could utter a syllable. Then he bellowed into the room with all the enthusiasm of a man relishing the result of his invitation,

  “Well, lads! Who wants to come at me first?”

  All hell broke loose.

  SIX

  L ORD SHREWSBURY was in his seventieth year, but today he felt a hundred and seventy. It was on days such as this that he contemplated resigning his post as England’s Spymaster General. He would retire and live out the rest of his days here, at his Dutch house at Chiswick, with his beloved granddaughter for company. Together they would watch watercraft sailing up and down the Thames—all the ills of the world, all the vileness and intrigue consigned to the pages of his secret history.

  But he had made a promise to his sovereign to remain Spymaster General until the “trifling upset” in the American colonies was resolved. Those members of the Privy Council who referred to the ongoing war across the Atlantic in such terms were either hopeful idiots or just plain ignorant fools. His Majesty was unshakeable in his belief that the “trifling incident” would soon be over, and his American “children” would return to him, their English parent.

  Privately, Shrewsbury believed the American colonies were already lost. He believed this because he, more than any other man in the kingdom, had access to secret correspondence and intelligence from a network of spies that stretched across the kingdom, across Europe, out across the vast Atlantic Ocean and into every colony in the Americas. And he knew the American child had reached out to another parent, a rival, the great enemy of Britain—France. The French Ambassador to the Court of St. James’s was at pains to reassure King George that France would not go to war to assist the American rebels: It would remain neutral.

  Bollocks to that! thought Shrewsbury. He knew the French for liars. Louis’ government was secretly providing aid in its various forms so the rebels could wage a full scale war on British troops defending His Majesty’s colonial subjects. He was breeches deep in secret intelligence that told him so. He had recently received intelligence that an agent of France based in Lisbon was, for the right price, willing to not only betray his countrymen, but divulge the name of the traitor within the bureaucratic ranks of Lord Shrewsbury’s own spy network. Shrewsbury knew this traitor existed because he had been about to pounce on the traitor’s intermediary, Charles Fitzstuart, a young idealist who had managed to evade capture with the help of his noble family.

  It brought the bile up into his throat to think Charles Fitzstuart had escaped to France. He could not now be brought to justice for his treasonous activities, and he had taken with him the identity of the traitor within England’s spy network. It was now vital that contact be made with the French double agent in Lisbon. Shrewsbury would send his best man, who possessed the skills to disappear into the local setting, could speak whatever language was required of him, was expert in handling all types of weaponry and, if caught, would be able to withstand the torture meted out to foreign spies. It was a dangerous and challenging assignment requiring great courage and cunning, but he was confident Major Lord Fitzstuart was up to the task.

  The Major was presently licking his wounds after a particularly riotous evening the night before at a painter’s studio. Shrewsbury had not read the finer particulars of a report into what had occurred, but he knew whores, drink and fists were involved, as it always was with the Major. Half a dozen souls and an aggrieved painter were seeking reparation and revenge. None of this bothered Shrewsbury in the least. He had been the same at the Major’s age. Young men, particularly young men who risked their lives, needed distraction. And such men would be naughty boys given enticement and opportunity.

  How ironic that the Major, his best agent, just happened to be the elder brother of the escaped traitor Charles Fitzstuart. But he trusted the Major implicitly. The same could not be said for the other members of Charles Fitzstuart’s family. Two of their number sat across from him in his study. Both were noblemen of the highest rank and both were likely suspects in aiding and abetting Charles Fitzstuart’s escape.

  The Duke of Roxton was the most powerful duke in the kingdom, son of his best friend and Charles Fitzstuart’s cousin; the other, Jonathon Strang, newly elevated Duke of Kinross, was the wealthiest peer in Scotland, and certainly the most outspoken. An intimidating duo. Both men were arrogant, opinionated, and fearless. But both had a weakness, the same weakness: Antonia, Dowager Duchess of Roxton.

  The Duke of Roxto
n demanded to know why they had been summoned before him.

  The Spymaster General was remarkably composed and smug.

  “Do you not know, your Grace?” Lord Shrewsbury was unconvinced. He looked at Kinross. “Perhaps your Scottish Grace would care to enlighten his English Grace?”

  “There’s no need to be convivial on our account,” Kinross stated dryly. “If Roxton says he don’t know, believe him.”

  Shrewsbury looked Kinross between the eyes.

  “Very well. Then I need only arrest you for treason, your Grace.”

  “Treason?” both dukes said in unison, but it was Kinross who gave a bark of laughter, as if Shrewsbury was in jest, which he knew he was not. He blew cheroot smoke into the air.

  “For helping a couple elope? Don’t be a fool, man! There ain’t anything treasonous in that!”

  “For knowingly aiding a traitor to evade capture, the penalty is—I see that you do not know what transpired earlier today, Roxton?” Lord Shrewsbury continued, and was interrupted by Kinross.

  “I’ll tell you what happened this morning. Shrewsbury here gave permission for the militia to storm your mother’s house at dawn. Imagine! The house was overrun with troops. It was a damned frightening experience for Mme la Duchesse—”

  Roxton half rose out of the armchair.

  “What? Soldiers stormed my mother’s house?” He looked from Kinross to Shrewsbury. “What game are you playing at? It’s intolerable you have me summoned here not five minutes after I reach town, leaving my wife, my pregnant wife, troubled as to the nature of your business. And now I find you have distressed my mother even more so? I will not allow—”

  “What you will and will not allow is irrelevant, your Grace,” Shrewsbury cut in politely. He looked over the rims of his spectacles, blue eyes cold. “You need to ask yourself how Kinross knew your mother’s house was searched by militia on my orders. And at such an early hour of the morning, when most of Westminster is still sleeping…” He looked directly at the Duke of Kinross and said without blinking, “My guess is the Duchess was still in bed… None would know that better than you, your Grace.”

  “Ha! You short change yourself, Shrewsbury. Given your sinister line of work, I’ll wager my silver cheroot case you not only know the answer to that, but which side of the bed she prefers!”

  Shrewsbury inclined his white head at the backhanded compliment.

  “And when not in bed, the preference is for a chaise in the book room, or the public space of her Grace’s pretty summer pavilion, is it not? The infinite variety of settings you choose for your torrid couplings is limited only by your imaginations.”

  Kinross bared his white teeth. But there was no laughter in his eyes. He drew back deeply on his cheroot and deliberately blew the smoke at the Spymaster.

  “What a sad little man you are, Shrewsbury. The salacious reports about a beautiful woman being pleasured by her lover get it up for you, does it? Keep those under your pillow? Take them out to salivate over when you need some relief? Ha! My bet is you’ve been spying on Mme la Duchesse well before I—”

  “For God’s sake, Kinross! You’re talking about my mother.”

  It was Roxton. He was hard gripping his chair, face the color of puce. He looked about angrily at Shrewsbury’s secretary, Mr. William Watkins, who instantly dropped his gaze to the quill in his hand. “My mother, Kinross,” he said in a fierce, whispered aside. “Not a common harlot. A duchess. I thought you—God! I don’t know what to think now!”

  Kinross patted the younger man’s velvet sleeve affectionately, and leaned in to speak to him quietly. “My apologies. He got under my skin. Made me as mad as hell. He has no right, no right at all, to spy on her. I didn’t mean to upset you. Julian…” He waited for Roxton’s green eyes to meet his gaze. “I love and adore Antonia, most sincerely and devotedly. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do to make her happy. I mean to marry her, and without delay. Your blessing, or not.” He gave a lopsided grin. “I would prefer to have your blessing.”

  “Good. Roxton can present you with the Special License he recently procured from Cornwallis, once you’ve taken your leave of me. Perhaps he has it now, in his frock coat pocket…?”

  “How did—?”

  Shrewsbury smiled thinly, unconcerned and pleased with himself for managing to rile both noblemen within minutes of their discourse. Matters were progressing more quickly than even he anticipated. Both dukes stared at one another and then at Shrewsbury.

  “Don’t expect him to tell you!” Kinross said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He grinned sheepishly. “But I’ll gladly accept the license, if indeed you have one.”

  “Of course I have one! Damn you!” Roxton blustered. “I cannot say I’m overjoyed to gain a father who is a mere eight years my senior. That you sincerely love my mother, and come with a dukedom, sweetens that bitter pill. Besides, it’s what she wants. You make her happy. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted for her—to be happy. So for God’s sake, marry her without delay. This afternoon wouldn’t be soon enough!”

  Kinross shook his head with apology. “Not today. Promised to accompany her to the theater. Opening night of Sheridan’s new play. She’s been lookin’ forward to it for weeks. Can’t disappoint her.”

  “Tomorrow morning then. No later.” When Kinross nodded, Roxton audibly sighed his relief. He took from a deep frock coat pocket a packet with the Archbishop of Canterbury’s seal upon it and handed it over. “The rest of the details I leave to you… You, sir,” he said, addressing Shrewsbury, “I shall have your apology for casting aspersions on the character of the Dowager Duchess of Roxton, and I will have it now or I leave your house, and never will I or my friends speak to you again.”

  Shrewsbury was not the least intimidated, and he leaned forward in his chair and crossed his arms on the blotter on his desk.

  “What is it with you, Roxton, that you have this inherent belief that your dukedom puts you and your family above the law and its statutes?”

  “My father certainly believed so,” Roxton quipped, then added seriously, “You know me for a stickler in doing what is right. That a member of my family could well be a traitor to his king saddens and appalls me.” He glanced at Kinross. “I confess I only became aware of Cousin Charles’s treasonous activities recently. That family members felt obliged to assist him evade capture is not something I applaud. But I believe such actions were taken with the best of intentions, even if they were misguided.”

  “Best of intentions? Misguided? Balderdash!” Shrewsbury stated dismissively. “For their assistance, your mother and Kinross may as well be in league with the French!”

  “Charles Fitzstuart eloped with my daughter to France, and I gave my consent, so it’s not a crime,” the Duke of Kinross stated. “That’s all anyone outside these four walls needs to know. And there’s an end to the matter!”

  Shrewsbury stared at Kinross with half-closed lids.

  “Do not insult my intelligence, or the intelligence of Roxton and my secretary. You and the Dowager Duchess were instrumental in Charles Fitzstuart evading capture and fleeing to France. Punishing Fitzstuart has now become academic. But just because that bird has flown does not mean others cannot be punished and made an example in his stead. Those contemplating treason must be shown that even if they manage to avoid capture, it does not mean they are free, particularly when they leave behind friends and family. There are a myriad of possibilities of inflicting punishment without putting a finger on the traitor.”

  Shrewsbury’s mouth twitched with self-satisfaction. He put up his arm and beckoned someone out from the shadows of the long room.

  “Your family will be held accountable, and I will make certain Charles Fitzstuart is punished. In fact, I mean to kill three crows with the one stone. And I have just the instrument to do that. ”

  “Instrument?” Roxton asked, exchanging a look with Kinross.

  When that nobleman shrugged his shoulders and pulled a face of incomprehension, R
oxton looked behind him. Kinross did likewise. Both Dukes were taken aback when out of the shadows Major Lord Fitzstuart appeared. But their surprise was not that he had been there the whole time and overheard the entire conversation, but at the state of his appearance.

  Kinross could not help exclaiming, “Good God! What happened to you?”

  DAIR SMILED, but even this small action made him grimace. He instinctively touched the corner of his mouth where his lip was split and where an ugly blue-black bruise was getting uglier by the hour. Above his left eye his brow was also black and swollen, and there were abrasions and bruises to his knuckles. Every part of him felt raw. But for all that, he could still stand upright. A good hot soak in his bath had gone a long way to easing his aches. A shave, a clean white shirt and stock, and a suit of coal black linen with silver lacings and matching buttons, and he had regained the appearance of a gentleman, even if the state of his face and hands made him look the street ruffian.

  “Come and take a seat, Major,” Shrewsbury said with genuine warmth. “Do the honors with the teapot, Watkins.”

  When the secretary half rose out of his chair, pulling a face in the process, Dair waved a hand at him to resume his seat.

  “I’d prefer an ale, but tea will do. Don’t put yourself to the bother, Watkins. I’ll fend for myself. You might need to consult your notes on the off chance I don’t get my facts straight. Was I pummeled by ten, or was it twelve, soldiers?”

  “I—I can’t—I don’t—” William Watkins blustered and pretended to look through his notes by shuffling paper.

  He wondered how the Major knew, not only that he had written up an extensive report of the drama played out at Romney’s painting studio the night before, but that he had been there to witness the entire inexcusable episode. The man was an animal. He couldn’t wait for Lord Shrewsbury to read his report, and for that, he waited with gleeful expectation of this arrogant luggard getting his comeuppance.

  “It was ten,” Dair stated, dropping a sugar lump into his tea cup and stirring. He sipped gingerly at the black brew. “Not the best odds, but I came out of the lacing better than some of those leather-heads.”