Dair Devil

by Lucinda Brant

  One too many times acting the part of Rodomonte, the boastful boisterous hero of Ariosto, had turned him into the same. For the first time in his life he was not only annoyed but also ashamed at allowing his desire and his gadso to dictate his manners. He had an overwhelming need to take her in his arms and console her, to tell her of his intentions, but now was not the moment; and she would hardly believe him, given his actions.

  So he stepped away from the wall with a respectful bow, hand in his frock coat pocket clenching his silver cheroot case, and muttering an apology that was out of his mouth before he thought much about it. And that’s when he, too, heard his name and swiveled about on a booted heel to discover Old Bert tramping across the open field, and holding aloft a wide-brimmed straw hat with blue silk ribbons trailing in the breeze. The old retainer was red in the face and puffing. He must have run most of the way.

  When he reached Dair, Old Bert gave him the hat with a nod and then dropped his gaze to the grass, not a look at Rory. His furtiveness was evidence enough he had witnessed their intimacy. That he remained where he stood after being dismissed had Dair move a step closer, realizing the old man wanted to tell him something. He just hoped that with permission to speak, Old Bert had the wherewithal to remain as one blind, as all good servants were wont, and wasn’t about to mention the obvious.

  “Beggin’ your lordship’s pardon. There be a gentleman in yonder garden watching. I seen him from the trees, when his head popped out of the hedgerow. Reason for callin’ out in the way I did. I meant no disrespect or offence.”

  “None taken. What’s he look like?”

  “Hatchet-faced. Small eyes. Fancy hair.”

  “Tall or short?”

  “Short.”

  “Seen him before?”

  Old Bert shook his bald head.

  Then it wasn’t Grasby. Not that his best friend was given to skulking in the shrubbery. Had it been Grasby, he’d have marched straight up to him, pulled his sister off, and rightly punched his nose. Grasby wasn’t a coward, and he wasn’t short. But he knew one of the party on Shrewsbury’s barge who was both. He hoped his intuition proved him right. He itched to rearrange the officious weasel’s neckcloth.

  “This sneakup got any muscle to speak of? Do I need to brace myself?”

  Old Bert gave a snort of derision and smiled a toothless grin. “Not on y’life, m’lord! He’s a milksop as ever I seen one. Not that I seen one. But I’d know one if I did, and he’s it! You’d only have to poke him with y’finger and he’d be to the ground in an instant, with his two hands over his head and whimpering like a girl!”

  “That about sums up the Weasel. Good. I’ll save the new skin on my knuckles. Is he still in the shrubbery?”

  “No, m’lord. As soon as y’turned your back he showed h’self—”

  “Did he indeed.”

  “—and went direct to your sweetling, where he be now in conversation.”

  Dair resisted the urge to turn around. He put up a black eyebrow at Old Bert’s moniker for Miss Talbot, but made no comment. Fiddling with the blue silk ribbons of Rory’s straw hat, he said flatly,

  “Tell Jamie I’ll be back up at the house within the quarter hour. And Mrs. Banks has permission to go through my satchels. There are a couple of bottles of port, a string bag full of oranges for the boys, and a mountain of laundry. And I need my razors sharpened.”

  “I’ll do the razors for ye lordship!”

  Dair didn’t have the heart to refuse the old retainer. What Farrier would think of letting anyone else near his master’s personal grooming implements he would deal with when the time came. For now he just had to get this beard off his face so Miss Aurora Talbot had no excuse not to kiss him again. And he would kiss her again, of that he was as certain as day followed night. And the next time there would be no excuses, no interruptions, and no weasel-like Peeping Tom in the shrubbery.

  He watched Old Bert trudge back up to Banks House the way he came, the old retainer whistling as he went, thinking about the best way to deal with Mr. William Watkins and his perfidious propensities.

  He might refer to Watkins by his Harrow schoolboy nickname Weasel, but the man was not a weasel, he was a snake. He was a backstabbing sanctimonious coward who had slithered his way through school and had done the same to become the smug know-it-all-secretary to England’s Spymaster General, and by virtue of his sister’s marriage to Grasby.

  The man didn’t deserve to put his knobby knees under the desk of secretary to Lord Shrewsbury, where he had access to all manner of state and personal secrets; particularly the personal. There was no higher moral ground with Watkins. He was no selfless functionary doing his bit for his country. He was not motivated by a sense of duty, or the imperative to keep papal tyranny from England’s shores, or the patriotic need to uphold the right of every Englishmen to live in the most liberal-minded country on earth. And he certainly had never offered to get his hands dirty by carrying out covert missions beyond the paperwork on his desk.

  Dair had wondered how a man of Shrewsbury’s masterful cunning and superior insight could employ such a self-server, only to be enlightened by the Spymaster that he knew exactly what type of creature he had employed, and that it was best to keep a snake close than to allow it to slither off into the tall grass not knowing its movements, and thus be unaware when it would strike.

  Now, squaring his shoulders, Dair braced himself to play the arrogant blusterer. It never failed to put Watkins on edge, that at any moment he might be met with physical violence. But when he turned to saunter back to the wall, dangling the wide brimmed straw bergere by its blue silk ribbons, he was confronted with a most astonishing sight.

  Mr. William Watkins was doing his best to keep hold of Miss Talbot’s hand, while she was equally determined to have her fingers released. And when the man rose up off one bended knee to lunge at Miss Talbot, she thrusting out her arms to keep him at a distance, Dair’s intended pretense evaporated like a popped soap bubble.

  He broke into a stride, gripped by the primal urge to protect, regardless of the personal consequences to himself. It was an instinct first experienced upon the birth of his son, and most recently at Brooklyn Heights, when he had rescued a loyalist widow and her two small children caught in the crossfire of battle. But there was something new in the emotional mix this time, something he had never experienced before, and one that surprised and vexed him further. He was covetous—irately so.

  No one touched what was now his—no one.

  SEVENTEEN

  H OW MR. WILLIAM WATKINS came to be on bended knee before Rory, with a wrathful Dair Fitzstuart bearing down upon him like a wounded bull, could be traced to a conversation with Drusilla, Lady Grasby, an hour earlier.

  Brother and sister had partaken of nuncheon in the opulent cabin of Lord Shrewsbury’s shallop. The gold damask curtains were drawn together on those windows where the liveried rowers were eating their fare, while those cabin windows with a view of watercraft plying the Thames were cracked open to allow for a pleasant breeze.

  There was enough food and drink for a party of six, but Lady Grasby and Mr. Watkins were the only ones to sit down to snap peas, salmagundi salad, terrine of duck, a variety of cheeses and the various fruits of the season. They ate in silence, and to the accompaniment of laughter and conversation from their servants, who had taken a picnic ashore under the shade of the willows along the bank. Such merriment merely underscored the irritation and embarrassment of brother and sister at being abandoned by Lord Grasby and his sister.

  “I understand your continued annoyance with your husband for his behavior at Romney’s studio,” said William Watkins, pushing aside his empty Worcester plate, “but you must find it in your heart to forgive and forget. If you do not, there will be no heir, and you will find yourself divorced and both of us disgraced.”

  “Divorced?” Lady Grasby sat up, eyes wide with fright. She swallowed; fingers hard about the closed black-lacquered sticks of her chinoiserie f
an. “I do not want to divorce Grasby. I like being his wife. I like him. I may even be in love with him… And I want to be Countess of Shrewsbury, William. I must be.”

  “Then give him a child, any child, boy or girl, will do for the present. That is how far you have fallen in Lord Shrewsbury’s estimation. A child will show you are capable of breeding, and seal the breach. When the longed-for son arrives, you will be forever cemented in Grasby’s heart and in his life. Nothing can touch you then. You will be Countess of Shrewsbury, my dear.”

  “It is all the fault of that man, William. If Fitzstuart had died in battle, Grasby could have mourned his friend, and our life without him would’ve been perfectly wonderful. It is unchristian of me to say so, but that is how I feel. I was so happy when he joined his regiment in the Colonies and left us alone. I prayed—yes, prayed—he would not return! The last thing I expected was for him to come back a war hero. That man has turned me into a bad person, William. Please, please tell me it is not my fault.”

  William Watkins glanced at the two mute footmen, whose chins remained up and their eyes staring straight ahead, and said gently, “We are in accord there. But he has the devil’s own luck, and there is little we can do to counter that.” Except have him poisoned, or stabbed to death in a bordello while he’s sleeping off a night of drunken debauchery, his inner claret-fueled voice told him. But you’re petrified you’d get caught. And you would, too. Even in death the luck would be with Shrewsbury’s fatwitted favorite, Major Lord Fitzstuart.

  Mr. Watkins recalled the covert missions Lord Shrewsbury had entrusted to Major Lord Fitzstuart, and how he had survived each and every one, despite the danger and risk to life and limb. No wound to his athletic limbs, and the odd nick and scar to cheek and chin had only added to his Grecian good looks. He was convinced Fitzstuart had sold his soul to the black arts, and one day the Devil would come to claim it.

  “I have given the dilemma of the Major’s undue influence over your husband much thought and have arrived at a suitable solution which, I believe, you will approve of most heartily.” William Watkins could not help smiling smugly. “Whatever the effect of Fitzstuart and his ilk on Grasby, it is countered by Miss Talbot’s sensible and loving counsel. With careful nurturing, and the added influence of myself, in the more intimate capacity of husband to Miss Talbot, would wean Grasby off his friend’s influence.”

  “Aurora? Aurora married to you…” Lady Grasby blinked her surprise. The idea had never occurred to her. But now the suggestion had been voiced, it made perfect sense. “William! Oh! Yes! Yes! It would make me so happy to have Aurora as my true sister! And Grasby does listen to her more than any other; more than he does me! And with you married to her—Oh please tell me you are serious. That this is not a whim. With your wealth and important position within the government, you could have married any woman of face and fortune. But to choose Aurora… I think I am about to cry with happiness.”

  He put up his hand in a gesture of self-effacement, though his grin was indication enough he was pleased with her effusive response, and beckoned a footman to set the crystal decanter at his elbow. It was such a hot day…

  “My dear, your support pleases me greatly. I admit the prospect of approaching Miss Talbot, of seeking the consent of Lord Shrewsbury, makes me exceedingly nervous. Hence, I fear, I am full to the gills with claret. I know I am nothing above the ordinary. As my sister you have a duty to think so, but—”

  “Oh, hush! That you are prepared to marry Aurora can only make Lord Shrewsbury eternally grateful. We all privately believed she would never receive an offer, even Lord Shrewsbury. As for Grasby’s romantic notions, that one day a gentleman would come along who would love Aurora for herself, that is a great piece of fanciful nonsense. She has a pretty countenance and an excellent pedigree to be sure, but that vanishes from consideration, does it not, the moment she struggles to her feet and uses that wretched stick. But you—” She squeezed her brother’s hand. “—you, dearest William, are such a noble man. You have always managed to cloak a natural uneasiness, as have I, with her ungainly ways.”

  William Watkins refilled his glass. His sister’s enthusiasm for a match with Aurora Talbot was reassuring, but he was not the paragon she believed him. That she had a pretty face and gentle nature went a long way in his overlooking her physical infirmity and her headstrong character. But he was prepared to put up with a lot—the stares of pity from his peers, her passion for pineapple cultivation and a natural reclusiveness, not to mention her candid observations, all of it, however disagreeable—if it meant that through marriage he would realize his twin ambitions; of marrying into the nobility and being acknowledged the successor to her grandfather as Spymaster General.

  “Your assurances warm my heart, Drusilla,” he said with a thin smile. “It had been my intention to ask Miss Talbot this afternoon, and have her acceptance, then approach Lord Shrewsbury this evening. I realize this is an unorthodox method of seeking consent, but without the former I do not wish to pursue the latter.”

  Lady Grasby was up off the settee, and flung wide the French windows, a sweeping look about the barge and then out to the dry land, in search of her maid. She must make herself presentable for her husband’s return, and that of his sister, newly-betrothed to her brother.

  “What do I care about formers and latters?” she declared. “I just want you to marry Aurora as soon as possible and get my husband away from Fitzstuart! So go. Please go, and say whatever you have to, to get her away from those vulgarians. And on the return journey here, find a moment to rally yourself to ask her to marry you. Now, go, William!”

  William Watkins dutifully followed his sister out onto the deck and instantly shut his eyes tight against the sunlight. Squinting, he opened an eye, made her a bow, and lurched towards the jetty. Glad to be off the barge, he was surprised when the feeling of dizziness did not subside, for he had assumed it was the gentle rocking motion of the barge that was making him sway. Now, he wondered if the claret was taking its toll on his tea-only brain. He stumbled onward, up the jetty, and made for the low stone wall. Glad to be on solid ground, and to have something to guide him onwards, he made for the gate he had seen earlier on his tour of the Physic Garden.

  He was almost at his destination when he was confronted with the startling sight of Major Lord Fitzstuart carrying Aurora Talbot in his arms. The Major appeared as if from nowhere, out from under the canopy of a birch grove, and came striding across the open ground towards the wall. Thoroughly unprepared for such an eventuality, William Watkins panicked and did the only thing that came to mind. He hunched down, not wanting to be seen, scrambled across the graveled pathway, and flung himself sideways into a hedgerow to hide. But the unexpected vigor needed to ensure safe cover was enough to awaken a digestive system unused to alcoholic stimulation. His stomach was literally drowning in claret. William Watkins fell through bracken and leaves, hit the ground hard, promptly threw up, and passed out.

  When he woke, which was a few minutes later, he had a moment of panic that the barge had left without him. But he dismissed this as mere fancy, picked himself up, brushed himself off, and hastily wiped his face and mouth with his handkerchief. Panic returned as he inspected his frock coat for signs of digestive stains and scuff marks. Satisfied he was presentable, he took a peek through the shrubbery. Startled by what he saw, and to convince himself he was not dreaming, he stuck his head over the hedgerow, and openly gawked.

  Miss Aurora Talbot, the woman to whom he had pinned his matrimonial hopes and dreams, and the dissolute Major, were kissing! It was not any kiss. It was a fervent kiss. It was the sort of kiss reprobates and well-paid whores engaged in. Even then, degenerates did so under cover of darkness or behind closed doors. It was a scene straight from a Hogarthian etching, and it left William Watkins catatonic with rage and fear in equal parts.

  His matrimonial dreams were about to come to naught if he didn’t do something, and immediately, to haul aside a libertine, with more muscle
than brain, who was forcing his attentions on his chosen bride. Dear God! Fitzstuart must have plied her with enough alcohol to make her compliant, and too shocked and too fragile, she could not fight him off.

  He would stride over there and demand satisfaction. But a fat lot of good that would do. The Major would rightly laugh in his face and decline—they were not social equals. But as the Major was more brute than nobleman, he would not have been at all surprised if his weapon of choice were his bare knuckles rather than the nobleman’s rapier. But he did not want his facial features bloodied, so he sensibly decided to put his own safety above any rash move to extricate Miss Talbot from such a thoroughly compromising and immoral position.

  Thus he bided his time in the hedgerow, wondering how best to save a maiden from a fate worse than death, when an opportunity to rescue Miss Talbot, without endangerment to his person, presented itself. The Major, hailed by a yokel, had turned his back on his victim. It was now or never to play the hero for Miss Talbot.

  Mr. William Watkins parted the shrubbery and scurried across to rescue his matrimonial quarry. His moment to shine had arrived!