by Isobel Carr
Granby paced across the room, one hand fiddling with the patch that covered his left eye. Lady Boudicea had done that to him. With her bare hands. Padrig forced himself to ignore the shiver that went down his spine. If she was capable of such an action, what might her brothers do?
“I came as quickly as I could, sir,” Padrig said, fully aware that nothing he could have said or done was going to mollify his employer.
“Snatch a girl and bring her to me. How hard is that?” Granby glared out of his one eye, his mouth quirked into a dismissive moue of disgust. “Lock her in the carriage and don’t let her out until you reach Scotland. Nothing could have been simpler.”
Padrig choked down the obvious retort. If it was so simple, how had she got away from Granby when he’d tried it? “I know, sir.”
“But your knowing didn’t get the job done,” Granby said, deep frown lines marring both cheeks. “And you very much wanted to get the job done, Nowlin. Maeve has already discovered a taste for the life of a harlot.”
Padrig’s hands curled into fists.
“Well,” Granby continued, smoothing his coat, “she likes the clothes and the money and the frills and furbelows that accompany her newfound place in the world. In a few weeks, who knows, she may have passed out of my keeping entirely.”
“Breaking our bargain,” Padrig growled.
“And whose fault would that be? Not mine. I promised to return the little slut when you brought me what I wanted. If that’s become impossible, I’ll do with her as I like. And so will my friends. There’s always Bridget and little Sorcha to take her place when she moves on.”
“I’ll kill you first.”
Granby laughed, and Padrig felt a quick flush of shame. If he were any kind of man at all…
“If you were going to kill me,” Granby said, “you’d have done it when you woke up and discovered you’d lost everything to me, or when you found Maeve had bought you a six-month reprieve.” He straightened his neckcloth, not even bothering to pretend to be concerned for his safety. “All you’re going to do now is hie yourself back to England and attempt to correct your mistake.”
CHAPTER 12
Why won’t anyone listen?” Beau paced across her brother’s library, flexing her hands, nearly overcome with the urge to smash something. She veered toward the fireplace. The Meissen shepherdess on the mantel was perfect for her purposes.
The sound of her father clearing his throat brought her up short, and she spun about to face him. “Boudicea, sit down,” he said, his tone brooking no disobedience.
Beau threw herself into the window seat, staring resolutely out at the lawn. Her elder brother had fled the moment that her parents had arrived. Her sister-in-law was playing least in sight, and her parents were driving her mad. Her mother was planning a wedding, while her father was planning a funeral. It had got so bad that the two of them had stopped speaking to each other. Beau couldn’t remember her parents ever disagreeing about anything to this extent.
“I don’t want to hear any more of your stories, my dear. As I’ve already told you, I’ll make up my mind about what’s to be done when I’ve spoken to Mr. Sandison.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. Beau turned her head to find him studying her with a resigned look on his face.
“Perhaps your mother’s right,” he continued, “and a quick marriage under the aegis of your family would be best. But I want you to think—truly think—about whether you really want to tie yourself to such a man. He’s a rake, my dear. And everyone knows it. He’s been playing fast and loose with Lady Cook these past few months, and the pair of them have been none too sly about it. Think about that. He’s been debauching another man’s wife while seducing you. Is that really the kind of man you want to marry?”
Beau let her breath out in a long sigh. Though her father’s facts were faulty, the sentiment wasn’t. Sandison had been having an affair with Lady Cook, and before that it had been Mrs. Langley, and before her, some blond girl from the opera house—one could hardly have missed the way they flaunted themselves about Rotten Row. Beau might only have been on the marriage mart for a few years, but she could tally at least a score of Gareth’s conquests, and no doubt she’d missed just as many.
He never stayed loyal to any of them very long. Like a stallion with his harem of mares. Would she be any different? Perhaps she was mad to believe so, but she did. Once given, Sandison’s loyalty was steadfast.
“Would it be indelicate of me to say I don’t care, Papa? Or rather, that I might care, but not so much that I’d rather spend the rest of my life in quiet obscurity, paying penance for my supposed sins.”
“So you really want to marry him?”
“I do, a’dhadaidh,” Beau said, using the Gaelic of her childhood rather than the English father.
“Well then, mo cridhe, we’d best hope your brother hasn’t killed him.”
Gareth reined Monty in and studied Dyrham in the moonlight. The house was quiet. Every window was dark. He was late. He’d ridden all night, but it was the morning of the third day. No getting around the fact that he’d failed to meet Leo’s deadline by several hours. He only hoped Beau hadn’t been worried that he’d fail her… and that she still wanted him to follow.
That niggling doubt had been torturing him the entire ride. What might have seemed a good idea under one set of circumstances might look very different after a couple days apart, or after her family had had a chance to formulate an alternative.
Monty’s hooves fell heavily on the gravel of the drive, overly loud in the quiet of the predawn morning. As he rounded the house and entered the stable yard, a light appeared in a window, followed by a pale face. Gareth raised a hand in greeting, but whoever he’d seen was already gone.
Perhaps he was wrong about the likelihood of a few hours’ grace and Leo had been waiting to pounce.
Gareth unsaddled Monty, twisted a handful of hay into a wisp, and rubbed the gelding down. The layer of sweat that Monty had built up on their race to Dyrham had already begun to dry, leaving the gelding’s coat stiff and hard. Gareth was just about done when the unmistakable sound of footsteps caused him to pause.
“You’re late.”
Gareth smiled into the darkness at the sound of Beau’s voice. The teasing tone of her opening salvo told him everything that he needed to know. Whatever her family’s sentiments, she hadn’t changed her mind, and that was all that mattered.
“If you’re holding me to the letter of the law rather than the spirit, yes, I am.” Gareth continued to work his way down Monty’s side. Beau went to the gelding’s head and rested her forehead against the animal’s cheek. Monty nickered softly and tossed his head. Beau ran a soothing hand down the horse’s neck.
Gareth watched her, transfixed. Her hair was a dark coil spilling over her shoulder, the plait standing out against the pale fabric of her nightrail. It was all he could do not to wrap it around his hand and drag her to him.
“Had to fetch Mountebank?” she asked.
Gareth nodded, took one last stroke down the gelding’s rump, and let the wisp fall to the ground. “Couldn’t have him eating his head off in Neville’s Cross with no idea of when I might be free to retrieve him. Besides, if your brothers are going to murder me, I want Monty somewhere safe when I’m gone.”
“And there’s nowhere safer than your prospective killer’s stable?”
Gareth could feel rather than see the mocking little smile that accompanied the quip. He smiled back at her, and her lush mouth expanded into a visible grin of white teeth.
“For Monty?” he replied. “No. For me? That remains to be seen.”
Her smile faded, and her brows pinched worriedly. She let go of the gelding and reached for him, hands locking onto the lapel of his coat. Warmth leaked through the layers of their clothes where they touched, licking like lightning through every nerve in his body.
“You’re mine,” Beau said fiercely, giving him a little shake for emphasis. “And Leo shan’t be allowed to take yo
u away. That is, if you still want to be.”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, brat. Your brother’s threats to hunt me down and kill me aside, it’s a big, wide world, and I’m not a pauper. I could have easily made a run for it.”
Beau’s answering smile was everything that he could have hoped for. It lit her up and made him almost dizzy. Gareth locked his hands behind the small of her back and kissed her. Just a quick meeting of the lips. The rush of blood through his veins was deafening. Beau wilted against him, into him, and Gareth pulled himself back from the precipice.
Leo really would kill him if he caught Gareth tupping his sister in the stables like a milkmaid. “Shall we put Monty up and go await your family’s verdict?”
Beau drained the dregs of her second cup of tea and set the thin porcelain cup back onto its saucer. The clatter of the servants beginning their day below stairs made her jump.
Sandison raised one brow and drank from his own cup. The elegant cup looked ridiculously small in his hand. Like a child’s toy, or something offered to Gulliver by the Lilliputians.
“What version of events have you told your family?” he asked, setting his cup aside.
Beau sank back into the embrace of her chair. “The truth. Or at least that’s what I’ve told my parents. Leo didn’t arrive until after dinner last night. He looked right through me, like I wasn’t even there, and went straight upstairs.”
Sandison nodded, not looking at all surprised. “And did it serve?”
“No,” Beau replied baldly. “I found myself getting somewhat tangled when attempting to impart it.”
“And now they don’t believe a word of it.”
Beau shook her head, wishing she were a more eloquent storyteller, or a far better liar. “I think Mamma wants to, and I think the duke will warp the story to suit his purposes, whatever they may turn out to be.”
“So you think your father may want to kill me as well?”
“I think he hasn’t made up his mind.”
“Which is more than I could hope for, under the circumstances.”
“Exactly,” Beau said, glad that he understood.
“Don’t look so surprised, brat. I may not be a wily MP or a noted wit, but I am the son of a dangerously conniving earl. A younger son to boot, which means I was born to serve and be of use. I was raised on intrigue and politics. They were just of the petty familial kind.”
“So you know what to expect from my family?”
Sandison shook his head. “Not at all, but I know enough to expect them to make the most expedient use of me. And I know that I should be careful—very, very careful—of all of them. Especially Her Grace, who is, if you don’t mind my saying so, by far the most intimidating member of your family.”
“Mamma most certainly means for you to live,” Beau said, pouring herself another cup of tea. “She’s been planning the wedding since she arrived. I think she even forced Papa to apply for a license, so we can be married quietly from Dyrham.”
“Oh, I’m sure Her Grace wants me alive at least long enough to plight my troth and give you my name,” Sandison said, his tone wry. “I rather imagine my neck might not be worth much after that, however.”
CHAPTER 13
This is not the first time our daughter has had to be rescued from the jaws of scandal.”
Beau could feel her cheeks burning with indignation as her father continued his litany of her failings. She and Sandison were both still as they’d been found: she in her bedclothes and he in his muddy boots and dusty traveling gear. Her father had launched his first salvo from the doorway and had continued, unabated, for nearly an hour now.
Pointing out that she’d never meant for any of it to happen would get her nowhere. Attempting to defend herself, or Sandison, was a losing proposition.
“But it’s to be hoped this will be the end of such nonsense from her,” the duke continued, twisting the knife as he went. “I’m prepared to force the issue if I have to, but I’m hoping neither of you will make that necessary. Her Grace wants a wedding, and my daughter has voiced her willingness. I assume, young man, that if you were anything less than willing you’d have fled rather than turn up here.”
Beside her, Sandison nodded, seeming almost absurdly at his ease. Beau’s hands ached with clenching them, her teeth felt as though they might crack each time she swallowed down an angry retort. Sandison was simply taking it all in, nodding occasionally. He was disgustingly calm, which made her burn all the more with the urge to defend them both.
“No force or coercion will be necessary, Your Grace. But then you knew that from the start. Any man, especially one such as myself, would be lucky to be given Lady Boudicea’s hand.”
Her father sucked in one cheek as he watched them, his eyes keenly searching for weakness. “Quite,” he said dryly. “Though I’m not at all sure given was the word you were looking for, Beau.” He rounded on her. “You’d best run and get dressed, then go and find your mother. You can be the one to tell her she may have her way and set the wheels of your marriage into motion. Sandison, you’d best stay. You and I still have many things to discuss.”
Beau nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and strode from the room. Feeling petty, but unable to stop herself, she shut the door with enough force to communicate her annoyance but not so much as to cause her father to upbraid her for insolence.
She found her sister-in-law in the corridor outside her room and nearly burst into tears when Viola silently hugged her. After a moment, she shrugged out of the other woman’s embrace.
“Come along,” Viola said, the coaxing note in her voice nearly causing Beau to baulk. “I’ve got something for you.”
Once inside her room, her sister-in-law pulled a small book out of her pocket and held it out. Beau took it from her and stared down at it dumbly. The simple cloth cover was worn and somewhat grimy. No title or author appeared anywhere on it. She flipped it open: Aristotle’s Masterpiece stood alone on the third page.
“Philosophy?” Beau said, allowing the cover to fall shut. What the hell was she supposed to do with a book of philosophy?
Viola smiled slyly. “Of a sort, but not the fusty old kind that your father and I favor. This is of a more practical nature, especially for a new bride.”
Her sister-in-law crossed the room, took a seat at the small vanity table, and began straightening Beau’s myriad assortment of bottles, boxes, trays, and brushes. Beau cracked the book open again.
It is strange to see how things are slighted only because they are common, though in themselves worthy of the most serious consideration. This is the very case of the subject I am now treating of. What is more common than the begetting of children? And what is more wonderful than the plastic power of Nature, by which children are formed? For though there be radicated in the very nature of all creatures a propension which leads them to produce the image of themselves, yet how these images are produced after those propensions are satisfied, is only known to those who trace the secret meanders of Nature in her private chambers, those dark recesses of the womb where this embryo receives formation. The original of which proceeds from the Divine command—increase and multiply. The natural inclination and propensity of both sexes to each other, with the plastic power of Nature, is only the energy of the first blessing, which to this day upholds the species of mankind in the world.
Beau shut it again with snap. She glanced across the room to find her sister-in-law laughing silently.
“I know it’s not the most traditional bridal present,” Viola said, “but it’s far more useful, I promise. Keep in mind that it was writ by a man, but in among all the scientific and anatomical pedantry, there’s a great deal of useful information. Especially if, by chance, you might already be with child.” The slight upswing of her voice almost made the last sentence a question. “Or if you might want to prevent yourself from becoming so long enough for it to become clear that you didn’t have to marry.”
Beau looked down at the unproposing
little book again. “No worry on that front. Mr. Sandison was adamant that there be no possibility of a pregnancy.”
Viola bit her lips, half-containing her smile. “You sound put out, Beau. Didn’t you want him to be a gentleman?”
Beau wrinkled her nose and sat down on the bed. “No, I don’t think I did. Anymore than you wanted my brother to be one.”
“Our circumstances were somewhat different, my dear,” Viola said repressively. “Besides which, a Cyprian and the daughter of a duke have entirely different definitions of what constitutes gentlemanly behavior.”
“I would prefer he had to marry me, that he had no choice, and that it was at least partially his fault. As it is, I can’t help but feel I’ve trapped him into something he’ll regret. He’s done nothing wrong, not to me anyway, and I’ve turned his entire life topsy-turvy and set his oldest friend at his throat.”
Beau flung herself back onto the bed and stared up at the ruched canopy of the bed curtains. “I know none of you believe me, but Sandison wasn’t the villain of this piece. He really was trying to save me.”
“Well, he had an awfully strange way of going about it.”
“That was all me. You know us both. Does this seem like the kind of thing he would do? I was ruined either way, and I knew it. I saw a chance to save myself, and I took it, and I truly am afraid he’ll hate me for it in the end.”
Her sister-in-law made a dismissive tut-tutting sound with her tongue. “You saw a chance to save yourself, or you saw a chance to acquire something you wanted?” Viola’s question hung in the air like a bird of prey hovering over a hare.
Beau let her breath out in a long, resigned sigh but didn’t reply. Viola always did seem to see things a little clearer than one might like.
“Because I’ve always wondered about you two,” Viola said, appearing beside the bed, staring down at her with something a little too close to pity. “Your brother thinks I’m mad. You and Sandison may bicker and poke at one another and avoid each other most of the time, but you always seem to circle back to each other. You might take a moment to wonder if his motives are any purer than yours.”
