by Jo Beverley
When pigs sprout wings.
But now, she must escape.
She found her mother playing cards and leaned down to murmur, “Something at supper upset me, Mama. I must go home.”
The duchess excused herself from the table. “You poor thing. I do hope there’s no wider problem. So embarrassing for the hostess.”
“I see no sign. I don’t think shrimp agrees with me.”
Shrimp. That was what he’d said.
“No, dear? I haven’t noticed that before.” The duchess commanded their carriage and sent a message to the duke to say that they were leaving. “He’ll doubtless stay. I saw him in a serious discussion about the suspension of habeas corpus. Such distressing times. Do you need to lie down, dear?”
“No,” Thea said, uncomfortable with a lie. “It’s only a tiny feeling at the moment, but I’d rather be home if it develops.”
“Oh, yes, certainly. I was glad enough to leave. Partnered with Mrs. Grantham, who is such a silly player. I think this went rather well, though.”
“The choir was lovely.” Thea wanted to race down the stairs, but it would take time for their carriage to arrive.
“I mean Darien, dear! You were very generous with your attention and that can only do good. And I was so happy to see him enjoying himself with his army friends at supper.”
“He does have many army friends, Mama, and the Rogues intend to help him. Perhaps he doesn’t need our help.”
“Thea,” her mother chided. “Gentlemen never have the same cachet as ladies. Except in the clubs, of course. I wonder if your father can get him accepted at White’s….”
Only by a miracle,Thea thought as they arrived in the hall and servants hurried off to find their cloaks.
“The carriage won’t be long, dear,” the duchess said. “Why don’t you sit down?”
Thea wanted to pace, as if that would speed their escape, but she did as expected and tried not to fidget. Her mother turned to talk to a friend who was also leaving, so Thea watched the stairs, though what she could do if Darien came down them she had no idea.
Oh, Lord. After all that, she’d achieved nothing in her attempt to escape the betrothal.
She’d have to try again.
Without losing her temper.
Without mentioning the Rogues.
She should have realized how he’d react to her knowing that story. Any man would hate it.
But now her fears were confirmed. His actions were fueled by hatred.
When their carriage was announced Thea hurried into it. As the carriage rolled away, the duchess said, “I do hope you’re well by tomorrow, dear.”
“What?”
“Our dinner for Darien. Tomorrow night.” She broke off because Thea had moaned. “I forgot that you’re unwell, dear. Do you want the smelling salts?”
Thea shook her head, speechless.
Chapter 16
Darien didn’t pursue Thea Debenham, but he followed in her wake and saw her speak to Foxstall. Damn Foxstall. His presence in London was inconvenient, and his attentions to Thea’s cousin potentially disastrous. Something about his exchange with Thea set off warning bells as well.
Of course his own exchange with Thea Debenham left a lot to be desired. She seemed able to deprive him of his wits with a fiery look from her clear blue eyes. Then she’d mentioned the Rogues.
Damn it all to Hades, he wouldn’t have them meddling in his affairs.
He’d have preferred to leave, but he’d won entreé here and would damn well exploit it. He strolled through the rooms, ignoring any slights and pausing to speak to any army men he knew, glad to see Foxstall leave, doubtless for the livelier amusements of a hell or brothel.
This was the sort of slow, subtle invasion he’d once planned—before he’d met Thea Debenham. Since then, his life had gone to hell in a handbasket. He’d been forced to abandon Pup tonight, so heaven knew where he was. At least the lad was too nervous to go to a brothel on his own.
As he went through the social patterns, he watched for Lady Thea. While talking about the number of naval vessels lying idle, he was alert for the distinctive flower perfume she wore. While discussing affairs in India, he listened for her voice, so light and well modulated.
Except when she was angry.
Or frightened.
He’d frightened her.
He wasn’t proud of that, but she was trying to wriggle off the hook and he couldn’t allow that. For Frank’s sake.
By eleven o’clock, he couldn’t take more of the social playacting and set about leaving.
When he took farewell of the Duke of Yeovil, he discovered that Thea and her mother had already left.
“Something in the potted shrimp,” the duke said quietly. “Had some myself with no ill effects, but the ladies are more sensitive, aren’t they?”
That hadn’t been Darien’s experience, but then his experience had mostly been of the sort of women who followed the drum. From whores to officers’ ladies, toughness was essential.
Besides, he knew what Thea Debenham’s complaint had been—an excess of Cave.
He found and thanked his hostess, apologizing for attending without invitation. “The duchess insisted,” he said, with some truth.
“I must thank her, then,” the countess replied with smiling eyes. “Your presence has livened my sedate entertainment.”
“We Caves live to serve.”
“I thought the motto was ‘beware,’ my lord.”
“Like pepper, terror can be enlivening in moderation.”
She laughed, shaking her head.
He collected his evening cloak and left the house realizing that Lady Wraybourne’s playful tone signaled another victory. When he’d arrived, she’d truly been alarmed, perhaps imagining her entertainment ruined by mayhem and violence. Now she was amused and saw no harm in him.
An error, but still a victory in his campaign.
A footman would have found him a hackney, but he was used to an active life and London stifled him. Perhaps walking the dark night streets also fed some mad urge toward risk. A man could become addicted to that. He saw that fault in Foxstall, but did it live in him, too? Was he capable of living a quiet, orderly life?
He paused in the street, realizing that he’d echoed Lady Thea’s words.
No. He was not imagining a future with her, not even in his wildest dreams.
A noise pulled him out of his thoughts.
He’d carelessly taken a shortcut through narrow, dimly lit Cask Lane and now three young toughs were circling him, showing crooked, dirty teeth. “We’ll just have your money and trinkets, milord,” one said.
Darien launched without warning, wielding his cane. In moments, two were fleeing, one with a bad limp and the other clutching cracked ribs. The third lay whimpering at his feet, hunched against the expected kick.
He only touched him with his toe. “A lesson from an expert,” he told the youth. “Attack first, talk later.”
He walked on, feeling a little better for the exercise.
Chapter 17
Darien entered Hanover Square, which was peacefully quiet at gone midnight, but still the scene of a notoriously bloody deed.
In daylight, the shrubs and bushes of the gardens gave a pleasant aspect, but at night they were dark shapes behind black railings, able to hide any number of monsters. He walked to his house, but then paused to study the opposite row of houses, appearing only as a black square against dark sky, broken only by one curtained window and a couple of lamps beside doors. The Wilmotts’ house was over there, and though Lady Wilmott had fled Town, Sir George was still in residence.
Did people point at the Wilmott house as they did at Cave House, as they did at the place in the gardens where the bloody corpse had been found? London people brought country cousins here. Tour St. Paul’s, Westminster Abbey, and the Tower of London. Go to Hanover Square to see the scene of Mad Marcus Cave’s bloody deed.
One day he was going to have to try to arran
ge a meeting with Sir George and forge some sort of peace. But he couldn’t face that yet. He suspected the man had sent theWrath of God drawing. Who else? He might even be responsible for the blood. He’d no desire to bring the family more distress, but he had his plan to push through.
He turned toward his house, where the family crest sat above the lintel. The snarling black mastiff seemed almost animated by the flickering flame of the lamp by the door. Darien snarled back, ignoring the carved warning beneath.Cave.
He should get rid of it, if only because such house crests had gone out of fashion fifty years or more ago. It was carved in stone, however, and set firmly into the brick. Removing it would be the devil of a job, and for all he knew the stone was supporting the upper stories of the house. Causing the place to crumble was tempting, but for now it was his burden.
Taking up residence here had been a mistake, but he couldn’t correct it yet. To move now would look as if the blood had frightened him away, and one of his creeds was to never, ever show fear. He’d learned that whenever young Marcus had visited Stours Court. Even before turning mad, Marcus had been the sort of bully who’d feasted on fear like a vampire on human blood.
Hades, he was hovering, reluctant to enter. He unlocked the door and went inside. As always, the house was both silent and loud with malice.
Then Prussock hurried up from the basement. “Welcome home, milord.”
This was a change. Was Lovegrove lecturing the other servants on correct behavior in the house of a peer of the realm, or was this Prussock’s reaction to the spate of visitors? Darien would rather he not bother, but he supposed the family were anxious not to lose their places here.
Prussock lit one of the two waiting candles and presented it.
Darien took it. “Thank you. Is Mr. Uppington in?”
“No, milord. He went out shortly after you did.”
“Do you know where?”
“No, milord.”
“He has a key, Prussock, so don’t stay up.”
“I am perfectly willing—”
“Go to bed, Prussock. That’s an order.”
“Very well, milord.” The butler walked away stiff with disapproval. Darien wondered if he was breaking some other arcane rule, but Prussock had a way of looking disgruntled about everything.
Darien mounted the stairs to where Lovegrove would be waiting to care for his finery—in spirit if not in flesh. Very much in spirit, judging from the amount of brandy disappearing.
There was nothing wrong with this house, he told himself. It was close to identical to the others in the row. Yet every time he entered, a foul atmosphere fell around him like a damp, rotting blanket. He’d slept among corpses with greater ease than here.
A flicker to his right made him turn. It was nothing, but he knew something hovered here, wishing him ill. Perhaps he should have the place exorcized. Did the Church of England do that, or would he need a Catholic priest? A Romish ritual might do more harm than good. There were enough people who still thought Catholics sacrificed babies on the altar.
The majority of people were bloody idiots.
To his surprise, Lovegrove was conscious and upright, if listing. The man managed to be both thin and flabby, but he knew his business and cared for Darien’s clothing as if each item was sacred.
“A pleashant evening, milord?” he slurred as he took Darien’s silk-lined evening cloak with trembling hands.
“Choirboys.”
A sharp look made Darien wonder about the habits of Lovegrove’s previous employers.
“The Abbey choir,” he expanded. “At Lady Wraybourne’s.”
“Ah. A mosht select occasion, I’m sure.” But the valet’s eyes were wide with surprise. He was also useful for his knowledge of the arcane ways of polite society.
“Very select,” Darien agreed, surrendering the overly tight black coat and embroidered waistcoat, but not an explanation for his entreé. “I encountered a number of army acquaintances.”
“Mosht gratifying, I’m sure, milord,” Lovegrove said, steering a course for the chest of drawers. Darien winced when the valet bumped into one corner of the bed.
The gratification was probably genuine. Darien had been amused to learn that a gentleman’s gentleman’s status depended on the gentleman. In large houses the personal servants were known by their employer’s name, so Lovegrove would be Viscount Darien below stairs. He doubted the Prussocks indulged in that sort of nonsense, but the system added to the reasons he’d found it hard to hire a qualified valet. No one volunteered to become a Cave.
Darien was grateful for Lovegrove’s skill and social knowledge, but he’d established from the first that when down to shirt and pantaloons he would fend for himself.
Lovegrove retreated, therefore, sighing. Alone, Darien washed his hands and face, but then wandered the room restlessly, remembering Pup walking in here earlier today, without a by-your-leave, and commenting, “Not moved in properly yet, Canem?”
He poured himself some brandy. The last in the decanter, he noticed. Ah, well, he considered it part of Lovegrove’s wages. As he sipped, he considered the room.
He’d grown skilled at moving into a billet and turning it into his own by distributing his collection—the richly woven blanket from Spain, the rug made of the fleece of an Andorran sheep, the chess set with the black pieces Moors and the white the forces of Ferdinand and Isabella.
He’d been here three weeks but not put out any of them.
The only personal item on view was his scarred wooden trunk, which contained all those things.
On impulse, he unlocked the trunk. He tossed the blanket across the bed and the fleece on the floor, where it would greet his bare feet in the morning. He took out his scabbarded saber, the only part of his hussar life he’d retained. What to do with something he’d worn most of the time for so long?
Perhaps he’d hang it on the wall one day, but for now he laid it across the dressing table.
He took two wooden boxes out of the chest. He put the larger one containing the chess set on the table by the window, but didn’t open it. Then he set the slender flute box beside it.
Had he really played no music since moving in here?
He’d learned to play the instrument precisely because his father had considered all music unmanly, but in particular the smaller, delicate instruments. It was a trivial rebellion—the only sort he’d been likely to get away with—but it had provided blessings. One couldn’t haul a piano around battlefields, and even a violin could be a burden, but his flute had traveled everywhere with him and had often driven away the dark.
He prepared the instrument, remembering how often Foxstall had complained. He had as little taste for music as Darien’s father, and he’d sneered at an officer playing for the amusement of the men, which Darien had often done.
Foxstall had never understood the more subtle ways of gaining allegiance. Darien had learned them mostly from his first captain, Michael Horne. The first real stroke of luck in his life had been to land under that man’s command. Horne hadn’t been a brilliant soldier, but he’d been steady, conscientious, and truly kind. He’d tolerated an angry lad, but only to a point, and rewarded improvement.
Perhaps he’d truly been fatherly, for he’d been over forty, though why any man should choose to adopt Horatio Cave and his load of violent resentments, God alone knew. Darien knew he owed most of what he was today to Horne, and he’d wept to lose him after only three years.
From Horne he’d learned the balance between strict discipline and easy fellowship, which meant the men would follow an officer into the bloodiest battles, follow orders sharply, but retain the ability to think for themselves when needed.
Not too much familiarity—they’d despise that—but the little touches. The hour spent with them around a campfire in the evening, telling stories and making music. Making sure they were cared for when wounded. A memory for anything special going on in their lives, for their family back home and their special inter
ests. He’d allowed those interested to borrow from his small library of books.
When he’d made captain, his men had christened themselves Canem’s Curs. They’d meant well, so he’d tolerated it. Did they still use the name? Did they still use “Ca-ve, ca-ve, ca-ve” as their battle chant? Of course there’d been no battles recently except against desperate working folk….
He started a lively jig, the sort the men had liked most, but then found he’d drifted into a lament.
He didn’t like the thought of Canem’s Curs set loose in India under Pugh, the man who’d purchased Darien’s majority. Pugh wouldn’t be able to control Foxstall, and Foxstall was a wild force.
