Jo Beverley - Lady Beware

by Jo Beverley

  Thea went. She was too tired to make a rational decision now, and nothing would happen until later.

  “Such a night,” the duchess said as they reentered the house, “but so wonderful. Everything straightened out, and this time Dare will win, so soon this horrible time will be over.”

  “It will leave him weak,” Thea warned.

  “Of course, but he’ll soon recover his strength. And then we’ll have the wedding. Perhaps two?” Thea’s mother gave her a teasing look. “Avonfort, perhaps?”

  “No!”

  It came out more sharply than she intended, but no wonder her mother shot her a look of surprise. Lord Avonfort was a Somerset neighbor who’d been persistently attentive for over a year now. His home, Avonfort Abbey, was near Long Chart and his sisters were her friends. Thea supposed she would marry him, but she couldn’t think of that right now. Besides—she might be betrothed to another!

  “If you don’t care for him, there are plenty of others,” her mother said comfortably. “But you are twenty, and I admit that I’ve neglected you these past years. Now I can give you all my attention.”

  Thea escaped to her room.

  Heaven help her. She, not Darien, was to be her mother’s next project.

  Darien stayed in Cave House on Wednesday. No challenge had awaited him when he’d returned last night, but he’d take no comfort from that. Lady Theodosia could well have waited until after the ball to complain of his actions.

  If a challenge were to be issued, better it be in private, however, so he stayed in. He had a new problem to consider. In the night, someone had splashed blood on his doorstep. He might not have known about it but for his habit of riding in the early morning, before most fashionable people were about.

  He’d left the house as usual by the back, and walked to the mews area that served this terrace. When he’d arrived here a few weeks back, he’d found the Cave section let to others. As he had only one horse at the moment, he’d only reclaimed one box and not bothered to hire a groom.

  None of the grooms working in the mews had been particularly welcoming, but one had agreed to care for Cerberus. Darien made sure to visit a couple of times a day to check on the horse and pay his mount some special attention, and he rode him every day. Apart from the pleasure of riding, it was a brief time with untainted affection.

  The rides were the best part of his day. He liked riding and he liked morning. Morning presented each day afresh, yesterday’s staleness and dissatisfactions washed away, all things possible.

  This morning had been particularly lovely and nothing had happened to spoil it, so after his ride, Darien had strolled back to his house the long way, approaching it from the front.

  And there, on the step, was a pool of drying blood.

  He’d looked around, but whoever had done this was gone.

  Hanover Square was still quiet, most servants still abed. He went in quickly and found his domestic staff, the Prussocks, at the kitchen table enjoying tea, bread, and jam. He’d found these three here as caretaking staff and not bothered to replace them yet. They did an adequate job for a man who had no visitors and never entertained, but they were an uncommunicative, unsmiling bunch.

  “There’s blood on the step,” he said. “Has someone been hurt?”

  All three—father, mother, and slow-witted daughter—had risen and were now staring at him.

  “Blood, milord?” asked Mrs. Prussock. She often spoke for all.

  “Never mind. But it needs to be washed off. Now.”

  “Ellie,” said Mrs. Prussock to her daughter. “Off to it.”

  Lead-footed Ellie grasped the handle of the wooden bucket of water and stumped off with a rag.

  “No one’s been to the front door yet this morning?” Darien said.

  “No, milord. We’re just breakfasting. Do you want your breakfast now?”

  He ignored that. “Has this happened before?”

  More shifty looks. He simply waited. He’d dealt with far worse rascals than these in the army.

  “At first,” Mrs. Prussock said. “In the days after Mr. Marcus did what he did. Or so I’ve heard.”

  He frowned. “You weren’t here then?”

  “No, milord. We was hired as caretakers when your father died, milord.”

  He’d assumed they’d been here longer, but of course not. His father, loose screw though he’d been, would have needed better service than this.

  “Let me know if anything like this happens again,” he commanded. “And yes, breakfast now, please.”

  He left wondering what it would be like to have a normal household. As pleasant as having a normal family and a normal life, he assumed. And as likely.

  The Prussocks had taken on the roles of butler, cook/housekeeper, and maid, but none were trained for their part. Finding better servants to work for a Cave would be difficult, however, so he was thankful for inadequate mercies. They kept the house reasonably clean and tidy and provided plain but edible food, which was all he needed.

  He’d made one addition—a valet, necessary to take care of his new wardrobe, which he considered his armor in this battle. Lovegrove was slender, finicky, and skilled. He was also drunk most of the time, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  As he waited for his breakfast, Darien paced, considering the blood. It had to be a response to his invasion of the inner circles of society, but who would do such a thing or order it done? The Wilmott family, who still had their town house on the opposite side of Hanover Square?

  He hadn’t known they still spent the season there. He’d assumed they’d shun the place where their daughter came to a violent end in the green and pleasant central gardens. His presence here could be painful, but the empty house was no easier to bear, surely.

  Mrs. Prussock bustled in and laid out fried eggs, ham, bread, and coffee. As he ate, Darien couldn’t escape thoughts of that crime. He’d been in Spain when Marcus had murdered sixteen-year-old Mary Wilmott, but the news had traveled fast. Darien had been shocked, but not surprised. Marcus had been strange all his life, but untrammeled debauchery had given him the pox at a young age, and it had gone to his brain.

  He probably should have been locked up years before the crime, but their father had had the sort of aristocratic arrogance that would admit no fault. No one even knew why Marcus had seized Mary Wilmott, cut her throat and mutilated her, and left her corpse in open view.

  No one knew what the young lady had been up to in the gardens at dusk, but that was a question no one asked about the girl who’d come to be known as “Sweet Mary Wilmott,” subject of poem and ballad.

  Marcus had been easy enough to arrest. He’d left bloody footsteps all the way back to Cave House and been found there, gnawing on one of his bedposts.

  It certainly wasn’t an event easily forgotten, but Darien hadn’t expected this strong a reaction six years after the crime, five years since Marcus’s death.

  But Mary Wilmott had been one of the ton’s own. They did not easily forget or forgive.

  But nor did he.

  He’d rise even earlier in the future and make sure any further mischief was cleaned away before people were up to see it.

  Chapter 8

  Exhaustion meant Thea didn’t lie awake fretting, but when she woke, all her problems rushed back. Her mother, the Cave, the kiss, her promise. Twist her conscience as she might, she couldn’t deny that she had made a promise.

  Not Rapunzel, she suddenly realized. Rumpelstilt-skin.

  The young girl’s father had boasted that she could spin straw into gold in order to save his life. When she’d been locked away and commanded to do so, her tears of despair had brought a wizened creature who said he would spin straw into gold for her if she promised him her firstborn child. In desperation, the girl agreed and the gold appeared. The king had been so pleased, he married her, and in due course her first child was born.

  Had she forgotten, or thought a queen was safe? The little old man returned to claim the baby. When she
wept and begged, he granted her three days in which to guess his name. If she failed, he would take the child.

  The queen tried every name she could imagine, but couldn’t guess the right one. But then one day she heard him singing gleefully about his name, and thus she was saved.

  All in all, Thea thought, sitting up in bed, chin on her knees, it was a foolish story, but the lesson was clear—be careful what you promise, because you might have to pay your debts.

  Now she had Mara’s warning to add to her burdens. Antagonism. That was the word Mara had used, and it resonated with Thea’s experience. She’d sensed antagonism in Lord Darien, directed against her and against Dare. But why? Dare was too good-natured to stir such strong feelings, especially back in his youth. Thea’s memories of her adored older brother were all laughter and generous high spirits.

  Lurking in bed wouldn’t solve anything, so Thea climbed out and rang for Harriet, but then she paused, recollecting something that man had said last night. Something sarcastic about how everyone who knew Dare must love him.

  But it wastrue .

  There was a mystery here, but if there’d been an incident at school, that meant Harrow, and Harrow meant the Company of Rogues. It was almost noon. By the time she’d dressed and breakfasted, it wouldn’t be too early for a ridiculously named morning call. She’d visit Nicholas and Eleanor Delaney, for Nicholas was the leader of the Rogues.

  Harriet arrived with washing water and breakfast, and Thea asked about the green dress.

  “I did my best, milady, but some stains are right in the lace. I did wonder about putting a new panel in the front.”

  “A good idea. We’ll see if the mantua maker has more of the fabric.”

  May all the problems from last night be as easily solved. Thea wrote a quick note to Eleanor Delaney, sent Harriet to give it to a footman, and then sat to her breakfast.

  By the time she was dressed, a reply had come. Eleanor would be pleased to receive her. Thea summoned the town carriage and was soon on her way, Harriet on the opposite seat.

  Though Dare had been a member of the Company of Rogues and Thea had enjoyed plenty of stories about them, she hadn’t met many before last night. Simon St. Bride, Mara’s brother, had been Dare’s particular friend and had visited Long Chart on numerous occasions. He, too, was in Town, but he’d been in Canada for years and she didn’t know him well enough to be comfortable.

  Nicholas Delaney, however, had a house within riding distance of Long Chart. During Dare’s recovery, he’d visited often, and Thea could almost count him as a friend. Almost, because he was an unusual, often perplexing person. She’d seen less of Eleanor, for Eleanor had been pregnant for most of last year, but Thea felt comfortable enough with her to discuss this matter.

  Thea wasn’t surprised when Nicholas answered the door himself in his shirtsleeves—he was notoriously informal, despite being the brother of an earl.

  “Thea,” he said, with all appearance of delight, but added, “You’ll have to excuse me. We’re in the midst of preparations to return to Somerset. I’ll take you up to Eleanor.”

  Thea sent Harriet to the servants’ quarters and followed Nicholas, but she was startled to be taken to their bedroom. Eleanor greeted her warmly, but she was sitting in a rocking chair feeding her baby beneath a large silk shawl. The occasional slurping noises were disconcerting.

  Eleanor sent her maid off for tea. “I do apologize. But when a baby needs to be fed it is most insistent about it.”

  “I suppose so,” Thea said, taking a chair, not knowing where to look. Eleanor matched her husband in being simply dressed. Her long auburn hair was still loose, tied back only with a ribbon.

  “You must all be very happy with last night’s success,” Eleanor said, as if nothing was unusual.

  “Yes, of course, though we won’t completely relax until we hear Dare has won the battle.”

  “He will this time. Especially with Mara by his side.”

  “I pray so.”

  That wasn’t what Thea wanted to talk about, but in this situation she was tongue-tied.

  Eleanor drew her baby out from beneath the shawl and put him to her shoulder, rubbing his back. Thea couldn’t help but smile.

  “He looks so stuffed and content.”

  “Like a drinker rolling home from the tavern, Nicholas says. Cross-eyed and burping.” Still rubbing the limp baby’s back, Eleanor asked, “Did you have some particular reason for calling, Thea?”

  Both Delaneys tended to directness.

  Thea plunged into her concern. “It’s about Lord Darien. Before Mara left this morning, she shared some concerns. He did Dare a kindness, but she sensed antagonism between the two men, and Dare mentioned some incident at school. She wondered about his motives.”

  “Ah.” Eleanor brought the baby down into her arms. He was sound asleep. “Nicholas can tell that tale better than I. Would you ring the bell, please?”

  Thea did so and a nursemaid appeared almost immediately, clearly to take the baby. Eleanor kissed him and passed him over. “And ask Mr. Delaney to join us, please.”

  The tea arrived before he did and Eleanor moved to the sofa and poured.

  “Do you know Viscount Darien?” Thea asked as she took her cup and saucer. She badly wanted other impressions.

  “Not at all. He’s been in the army until recently, I gather, and out of sight since selling out.”

  “The family reputation is awful.”

  “Yes, but mine isn’t sterling. My brother is deplorable, but thankfully abroad.”

  Thea sipped. Had she landed among Darien’s allies? Had he been a Rogue? No. She might not know them all, but she knew their names, and he’d denied it himself. Sharply.

  Nicholas Delaney came in, looking curious.

  “Thea’s wondering about the ill feeling between Darien and Dare,” Eleanor told him.

  “Ah. Ironic that their names are now so similar when their natures are so different.” He took a cup of tea and sat. “May I ask why, Thea?”

  “Mara St. Bride shared some concerns and warned me to be careful.”

  He took a biscuit off the plate. “She’s very astute. All the St. Brides are, despite their famous blissful nature. Bliss requires intelligent wariness. Yes, there was a problem, but it was a long time ago.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  He thought about it, and then said, “Horatio Cave arrived at Harrow with every handicap possible except being a milksop. That, he certainly was not. But he was rough in manners and poorly schooled. I doubt he’d ever had friends of his own age and station, and quite simply, he didn’t fit in. Add to that his natural reaction to every affront was to fight, tooth and claw.”

  “Poor boy,” Eleanor said.

  Thea sipped tea. The poor boy was a man now, clearly over any such problems.

  “He did a great deal of damage?” Thea asked.

  “Mostly to himself. Physically, he was very different to the man you see now. He’s still not a giant, but back then he could best be described as a runt—short and scrawny. Some thought him easy pickings, but they soon realized their error. He’d learned to fight viciously. Considering his family, one can guess why.”

  No pity.

  “What happened between him and Dare?” Thea demanded. “I need to know.”

  He gave her a thoughtful look, but didn’t balk. “Cave picked a fight with Dare. Needless to say, Dare had done nothing to offend him, but perhaps Cave imagined a slight, or perhaps he chose Dare to represent the whole hated world. By the time they were pulled apart, Dare was well bloodied and Cave had barely a scratch. But then, as you know, Dare never had a fighter’s heart.”

  “That’s why we were all concerned by his desire to fight Napoleon.”

  “Wellington was inspired to give him a job that mostly required riding. He was always a blistering, fearless rider.”

  “At your suggestion,” Eleanor said, startling Thea.

  Nicholas brushed it aside. “Via
Con, via Hawkinville. Anyway, Dare always turned away anger with a laugh or a joke, and he did so this time. He said,‘Cave canem.’ He meant no ill by it, of course, but other boys took it up. Horatio Cave became Canem Cave, often accompanied by yapping sounds or silly jokes. And then, inevitably, it was translated into English. When someone called him Dog he ripped into such a ferocious fight he broke Derby Trigwell’s arm and was expelled.”

  No pity.

  “How sad,” Eleanor said.

  “For the boy with the broken arm?” Thea asked pointedly.