To Rescue a Rogue

by Jo Beverley

  Many things had. There’s been such intimacy that night—she could still feel Dare bathing her feet. There’d been nothing like it since—until he’d taken her hands in the coach and, later, in the library here. And kissed them.

  If Jancy hadn’t come in, would he have kissed her lips?

  Fingers to tingling lips, she left the room. She really should go to bed, but she wasn’t at all tired.

  Unlit candles stood ready on a table. She picked up one and lit it at the night candle, which was guarded by glass. Then she indulged in a tour of the ground floor rooms—another reception room, the dining room, and a small parlor that probably served as a morning room.

  She considered a closed door, then gingerly opened it to see a pedestal desk and leather chairs near an empty fireplace. This was probably where the duke received visitors who didn’t warrant entry to the family part of the house.

  She was closing the door again when she spotted a group of miniatures on a wall. She went closer, raising the candle to shed better light. As she’d hoped, they were of the family.

  The two oval portraits in the middle must be the duke and duchess when quite young. To their right hung a picture of a stocky man with thinning hair. There was enough of a resemblance to say it was Lord Gravenham, Dare’s brother, though he looked older than the twenty-nine she knew him to be. The round-faced woman alongside must be his wife and the two infants his sons.

  On the other side of the parents hung a picture of a smiling young woman with loose brown curls. That must be Lady Thea but Mara scarcely gave her a glance because she’d seen the picture of Dare.

  This was the Dare she remembered—hair longer, a twinkle in his eyes, a smile on his lips—a smile that promised mischief and adventure. She raised her hand to touch it.

  Alerted by something, she whirled, sending her candle flame flaring.

  He stood in the doorway, without coat or waistcoat, his shirt open at the neck. In his arms he carried a languid black cat.

  “I’m sorry. I was just….”

  “Wandering,” he said.

  “Prying,” she admitted. “But I really didn’t mean to.”

  He walked toward her, and to her shame, she took a step back.

  He stilled. “Jetta only bites enemies.”

  Mara reclaimed her step, though it brought her too close to this half-dressed mystery of a man. “Then assure her I’m a friend, please.”

  He glanced down. “A good friend, Jetta.” He looked back at Mara, his eyes strange in the panicked light of her guttering candle. “Is there anything you require?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “Poor Mara. From tedium to tedium.” His long fingers pleasured the cat, which watched Mara from slitted eyes as if warning her away. “It will get better,” he said. “You’ll soon be out until the early hours, dancing and flirting.”

  “I hope so,” Mara said, but it was a lie. She’d be fulfilled in this dull room alone with Dare. Silence pressed and she scrabbled for something to say. “Yeovil House is larger than it seems.”

  “You can see why I was eager to have guests.”

  “Even though you avoid them?”

  His fingers paused for a moment, and then resumed their work. “My apologies.”

  “No, mine. You were unwell.”

  “Yes.”

  Mara felt as if she wandered a cliff edge in a fog, but couldn’t make herself leave for safer ground. “Will she mind if I stroke her?”

  “I doubt it.”

  She put her candle on a small table, moved closer, and reached out. Seeing no objection, she stroked the warm fur. “She’s lovely.”

  “She’s full of her own importance. Don’t puff her up farther.”

  A faint, deep purr made Mara laugh and she thanked heaven for it. She was fiercely aware of being too close to Dare, of their fingers almost meeting as first he stroked then she did. In harmony.

  “She’s the children’s cat,” he said, “but once they’re asleep, she prowls to make sure all is well.”

  “As do you?”

  “No, I just prowl. You should go to bed.”

  Her hand stilled on the warm, silky body. “Or?”

  He stepped back, taking the cat out of reach, creating cold air between them. “Or you’ll be too tired for adventures tomorrow. A silk hunt, I believe.”

  “Yes.”

  He glanced at the pictures and said, “He’s dead, Mara.” Then he walked away.

  He’d reached the door before she found voice to call, “No, he’s not!”

  He continued on without hesitation.

  Mara ran to the door to watch Dare mount the stairs by the low light of the one hall candle. She blew out her own candle and returned to her room through the same gloomy shadows.

  The next morning that encounter with Dare had all the qualities of a dream, yet Mara knew it had happened. Jumbled nighttime thoughts had not interpreted it for her.

  She ate breakfast in her room, but found herself finished and dressed for the visit to the silk warehouse far too early, so she wrote to her younger brother and sisters. She wrote letters to Benji at school and Jenny and Lucy at home describing the cork exhibition. She even added drawings of a volcano.

  She still hadn’t seen Vesuvius erupt, but this didn’t seem a good time to ask about that.

  She sealed her letters and put them aside, still with time to spare. What to do? Then she had an idea. She could visit Pierre and Delphie and find out what they thought of the cork models Dare had bought them.

  She rang for a footman to guide her to the children’s area. If Dare happened to be there, that would be cream on the cake. She found the children alone, however, apart from a maid, but they seemed pleased to see her.

  The schoolroom was bright and furnished with soft chairs as well as the wooden ones at desks. It felt like the nursery rooms at Brideswell, because most things had clearly been used by generations of Debenhams.

  Had Dare played here?

  Almost certainly.

  Paintings hung on the walls of the sort most likely to appeal to children—a vivid Italian landscape, a naval battle full of smoke, a child playing with kittens, and a medieval picture of jousting knights. A miniature suit of armor stood in one corner.

  The two cork models sat on a low table.

  “Papa says we will go one day to see the volcano explode,” Pierre said.

  “I think that will be frightening,” Delphie whispered.

  Mara touched her hair. “I’m sure you won’t have to attend.”

  “But I like to go with Papa.”

  So do I, thought Mara.

  “Milady Mara, please to come see mes soldats!” Pierre took her hand and tugged her toward the table, where miniature armies stood in ranks.

  But Delphie clung to Mara’s other hand. “No! You must see ma maison de poupé.”

  Feeling like the baby contested between two mothers before Solomon, Mara said, “House, then soldiers.”

  Pierre gave in with good grace, but did not go with them to the dolls’ house. It was a magnificent work. Sitting on a low table, it was as tall as Mara. Three sides had been removed to show the rooms, but the front was in place.

  “Why, this is Yeovil House,” Mara said, studying the details with delight.

  “Oui, milady.” The house was on a turntable, and Delphie rotated it to point to a room. “Here we are.” It was the nursery, containing four dolls roughly representing a boy, a girl, and two maids.

  “It’s magical,” Mara said. “I see bedchambers, the library, and the duke’s reception room.” In the basement the kitchen and scullery were occupied by little dolls representing servants. Plaster hams and other meats hung from the ceiling. “I feel as if I could step inside.”

  “Moi aussi,” Delphie said. “I like to think where Papa might be.”

  “In the kitchens?” Mara teased, and Delphie laughed.

  “Papa is never in the kitchens.”

  “Then where is he now?” Mara certai
nly wanted to know.

  Delphie began to turn the dolls’ house. “He is not in the dining room. He is not in the grand drawing room….”

  As the child went through her inventory, Mara marveled. It was an astonishing work.

  “He is not is his bedroom…” Delphie chanted.

  Mara recognized Dare’s room and felt her cheeks heat.

  “That’s my room,” she said, pointing it out.

  “Alors, then we will put you there.” Delphie picked up a figure and placed it in the room. Mara didn’t complain that it was a rather severe looking older lady.

  “My brother and his wife, Lord and Lady Austrey, have the rooms next door.”

  “Oui?” Delphie chose a male and female figure and placed them on the bed, which made Mara bite her lip.

  “Papa is not in the ballroom,” Delphie said, turning the house to show a room that took up most of the back. “One day there will be a grand ball there and Papa says we may watch a little. There is a gallery, you see? Musicians will be there, but they will not mind us being there a little.”

  Delphie continued, pointing out all the other places where Papa was not. Mara couldn’t hold the question back. “Then where is Papa?”

  “In Feng Ruyuan’s room,” Delphie said. “At this hour, he always is.”

  She pointed to a bedchamber where a figure that looked a lot like Dare stood beside an Oriental one. Feng Ruyuan, Mara assumed, whoever that was. He was shown with a completely bald head and wearing a something like a monk’s robe, but in red.

  “Who is Feng Ruyuan?” Mara asked, feeling as if she’d been shown a portal to another world.

  “Papa’s friend. He comes to visit us, but we do not go to visit him, because there Papa fights the beast.”

  The little girl could as well have said because there he does his accounts or there he cleans his guns.

  Mara could think of nothing to say, but Pierre expanded for her from across the room. “One day Feng Ruyuan will teach me the way of the dragon.”

  “Me, too,” Delphie said.

  “The dragon is not for girls.”

  Delphie turned on Pierre, hands on hips, breaking into French. “I asked Uncle Nicholas, and he said it was for girls who wish it!”

  “A lady would not wish it, and one day you must be a lady.”

  “I do not want to be a lady if it means I cannot be a dragon!”

  “Delphie, Pierre!” The maid swooped down in a flurry of French, scolding and calming at the same time. Then she said in English, “Now you must apologize to Lady Mara for your bad behavior.”

  They did, but anger clearly simmered. Mara sympathized with Delphie, but sought a deflection. “Why don’t you show me the soldiers now?” she said to Pierre.

  Delphie grabbed at her skirt. “You will prefer my dolls.”

  Mara freed her skirt from clutching fingers and took the girl’s hand. “Come with us to the soldiers, Delphie. Soldiers are little dolls, really.”

  “Now you’ve torn it.”

  Mara looked up to find Dare there, amused. She’d already seen the shock and horror on both children’s faces at her careless comparison.

  After greeting Dare, Pierre turned back to Mara in combative mode. “Milady Mara—”

  “Pierre,” Dare interrupted. “A gentleman never contradicts a lady.”

  “But, Papa, what if a lady is wrong?”

  “A lady is never wrong. And Delphie, a young lady never argues with an older one.”

  Delphie wrinkled her brow and looked to Mara. “Truly?”

  Mara burst out laughing. “It would be very tedious, wouldn’t it? But arguing is hardly ever worth the trouble. Unless it is an issue of conscience, and then we must stand firm. I apologize for offending you both, and if your papa agrees, I will first inspect the army and then the dolls.”

  Delphie reluctantly agreed to this, but would not go to the toy soldiers with them.

  The soldiers were detailed representations of French and British regiments drawn up, Mara was told, as if for the battle of Salamanca. “Papa was not in the army in Spain,” Pierre informed Mara, “but Riggs was, and he tells me exactly how it was.”

  “Riggs is one of the grooms,” Dare supplied.

  Mara admired the detailed models and watched a little action, but she couldn’t help think of lives lost. Pierre played the English side forcing Dare to take the French, but he didn’t seem to mind, or be experiencing any shadows from Waterloo.

  When she let Delphie tow her away, neither male seemed to notice.

  Delphie took her to a rocking chair, which held three dolls. Mara admired Lucille, a baby doll with a perfect porcelain head and a lacy layette, then Belle, a fashion doll with a wax head, elaborate hair, and a silk gown in the style of the past century.

  The third was…well, to call it a rag doll would give it too much credit. It seemed to be made of twigs with scraps of cloth wound around it to form a crude body and suggest a skirt and bodice. The head was only a stuffed ball of rag with inked-on features.

  Delphie picked it up. “This is Mariette, my special friend. Say bonjour, Mariette.” Pretending to be the doll, she said in a squeaky voice, “Bonjour, madame.”

  Then she addressed the doll in French. “No, Mariette, this is not a madam. This is a milady. Milady Mara, a friend of Papa. Her brother is a Rogue, so you may trust her.” Resuming the squeaky voice and turning the rag head toward Mara, she said, again in French, “Good day, Milady Mara. You may hold me if you wish.”

  Mara found herself holding the assembly of sticks and rags and fighting tears. These innocent children had shared Dare’s terrible captivity. This doll must have shared it, too.

  “I’m honored, Mariette,” she said in French. “You must be happy here in this lovely schoolroom.”

  A conversation followed that might have gone on forever if Dare hadn’t interrupted. “I came to invite you on an expedition, children.”

  Attention fixed on him. “Oui, Papa?” Delphie grabbed Mariette without seeming to realize it. “Where do we go?”

  “To the exhibition of things made of cork.” When the children cast a dubious glance at their cork models, he added, “The real ones are much larger and better. You’ll enjoy them.”

  “We will see the volcano explode?” Pierre asked, his eyes lighting. “You said it exploded, Papa!”

  “Erupt,” Dare corrected. “If you are quick.”

  Pierre ran into the next room. Delphie paused long enough to give Mariette to Dare, and then raced after. Dare stood looking wryly at the doll, a finger stroking the rag head.

  “You made her, didn’t you?”

  He started. “There were no toys. I made some for Pierre, too—small swords and even boats if we could get away with it. But Pierre doesn’t cling to any of those things. I don’t know why Delphie treasures this.”

  “Because it’s not ‘this,’” Mara said, “but Mariette.”

  “I suppose so. Pierre would sometimes hold her, too. He’d pretend to be protecting her, but really, he was cuddling her. I don’t think he does that anymore.”

  “He might. If no one is looking. Perhaps boys need dolls, too, and not just little soldiers.”

  He gave her a skeptical look and replaced Mariette with her pretty companions. “You’ll be in accord with Nicholas. His daughter has a toy soldier and I’m sure his son will have a baby doll.”

  Mara touched Mariette’s rag head. “What about your sons and daughters?”

  “Other than Delphie and Pierre?”

  They’re not truly yours, Dare. What if their parents come to claim them?

  “Yes.”

  “I may not marry.”

  “But if you do?”

  “Then I hope to let my children be what they will be. As long as they be it with good manners. For there is no civilization without courtesy, and civilization is our greatest treasure.”

  She understood as clearly as if he’d said it that for him civilization could not include opium. He would n
ot allow himself children of his own until he’d defeated the beast.

  “You promised not to visit the volcano without me,” she complained, but made it clearly a tease.

  “Do you want to come?”

  “I wish I could, but I’m promised to the silk expedition. Will you take me another time?”

  “Of course.”

  That eased all her anxieties about him avoiding her. The children returned and the three of them left. Damn silk, Mara thought, but perhaps she could find time later for them to work on Castle Cruel.

  She hadn’t noticed the cat, but now Jetta slid from behind the curtain to curl up on the chair with the dolls.

  “So you like Mariette, too, do you?”

  The cat, of course, didn’t answer.

  Mara left the room, thinking about Dare. She was used to untangling problems and healing wounds, but here she risked doing more harm than good.

  He’s dead, Mara.

  Had the Dare of her golden memories truly been killed by this evil The´re`se Bellaire?

  When she reached her room, Ruth said, “There you are, milady! The coach has arrived. Hurry up.”

  Mara rushed into her outer clothing, then down to the hall, where Jancy was waiting.

  “Come on,” Jancy said nervously. “They’re waiting in the coach.”

  Mara went, but said, “They’re friends, Jancy.”

  “I’ve never met them before!”

  “They’re friends anyway.”

  Indeed, within moments of setting off, Lady Ball and Lady Middlethorpe insisted on being Laura and Serena. “After all,” Lady Middlethorpe said, “we’re all Rogues together.”

  Mara didn’t remind her that wasn’t true. It would be, one day soon.

  Chapter 14

  An hour’s drive took them to an older brick building with only a small sign to identify it as a place of business. Beneath Chinese characters were the English words: Lee’s Finest Silk Emporium. When the footman knocked on the red door, Mara wondered if such an English group would be denied entry.

  After a moment of surprise, however, the Oriental who had opened the door bowed his wealthy visitors in.

  They all gasped at the treasure chest of silks. Colorful bolts stacked shelves from floor to ceiling and a dozen Chinese men climbed up and down ladders fetching bolts to tables, where others cut lengths. Sometimes whole bolts were carried through to the back, where presumably they went on their way to the purchaser.