by Jo Beverley
On his recent visit to Stours Court, widowed Mrs. Lagman had fussed over him in the village. She was over sixty now and weathered by time and living under the Caves, but her smile had been broad. He’d put it down to looking for favor from the new lord, but had he misjudged her? After all, the whole family would have been evicted if they’d tried to protect him. Or worse could have happened, given Marcus’s temper. Most people avoided being heroes, and it was damn wise of them.
He returned the bowl and paid the woman twice her price, then rode on. Did anyone have good memories of childhood?
Dare Debenham, probably, damn him.
Van, too. He’d run wild in the countryside with his two friends—now Hawkinville and Amleigh—always certain of a friendly face. Apart from one gamekeeper, Darien remembered with a smile, whose life the three boys had made hell. Van’s reminiscences had been both pleasure and pain.
Darien had run wild in the countryside, too, but in order to escape the house. Indifferent servants had made escape easy, so he’d ridden out early every day to fish the streams and snare rabbits for food. He’d often climbed the steep hill to the crumbling ruins of Stour Castle, where he’d imagine himself the great Lord Rolo Stour, defending the keep against the enemy.
Lord Rolo’s enemies had been the Empress Matilda’s forces in the twelfth century, but Horatio Cave’s had always been the imagined images of his father, Marcus, and Christian.
He’d desperately wished he were a descendant of Lord Rolo, but the Stours had died out long ago after picking the wrong side too often in royal squabbles. In the sixteenth century the estate had been given to a royal clerk called Roger Cave, doubtless for sneaking around or keeping dirty secrets.
As soon as Frank had been old enough, he’d taken him along on his adventures. It had been to remove him from the dangers of the house, but he’d proved useful.
One of the gatekeepers’ wives had been childless, and Mrs. Corley, round-faced and kindly, would have adopted angelic Frank if she could. She fed him fresh bread and jam and poured him mugs of creamy milk.
Horatio Cave had never had Frank’s beauty or charm, but Mrs. Corley would let no child go uncherished, so he’d received the same nourishing food, the same smiles, and even, sometimes, the same bosomy hugs. He’d probably stiffened like a wild thing when she did that, for mostly he remembered a gentle hand on his shoulder or head.
He did remember, however, her praise. Praise was scarce as hen’s teeth in Stours Court, but Mrs. Corley would look at him with her bright eyes and tell him how good and brave he was to look after his brother. Of course he’d told her about Lord Rolo, and she would tell him he was just like that hero and would grow up to be a great man.
Were smiles and words, like fresh bread and creamy milk, nourishing?
The milk.
Perhaps that had stirred these sentimental memories.
Mrs. Corley had tried to protect them. When Darien had been about ten, Marcus had beaten Frank. The kind woman had tried to speak to their father about it, and not long after, she and her husband had left the estate. He’d heard that Corley had taken his wife away for her own safety, and it could be true. It’s what Darien would have done in that situation.
As Darien entered the park, he tried to push aside all thought of Stours Court, but his memories were like seeds underground, swelling into growth.
There’d been a stable lad, sly and coarse but happy to show the lord’s lad how to trap rabbits and steal beer from the alehouse.
A nursery maid, hard-faced and short-tempered, but quick to hide him and Frank if his father was in a drunken rage, or if Marcus turned up, drunk or sober.
She’d betrayed them once, but only after Marcus had twisted her arm out of its socket. Frank could have been no more than four, but Marcus had dragged them both around the house with ropes around their necks, whipping them if they cried. The devil alone knew why.
Or why he’d abruptly lost interest, tossed them in a wooden chest, and put a statue on top so they couldn’t get out. It had been pure chance that there’d been gaps between the old oak planks, for it had taken hours for the servants to pluck up the courage to release them.
Darien laughed wryly.
He should have remembered that most seeds grow into weeds. He inhaled and deliberately focused on the beauty around him. A thrush’s beautiful song; the waving daffodils and splashes of bluebells; ducks and swans cruising smoothly over sunshine-sparkled water, leaving a silver wake. The delicious purity of the air.
All real and here for all, even a Cave.
He considered where to ride that wouldn’t cross the way of the few tonnish people up and about at this hour. There were a number of briskly walking men, and a few more riders in the distance. Nursery maids were exercising apparently cherished children, and an artist sat sketching on a tablet braced on his knee.
Sketching him.
Darien rode around to see the drawing. The sketch was quick lines but conveyed a great deal. “I look like a statue,” he said.
The artist, a young man with shaggy brown hair and threadbare clothes, turned his head. “That’s what you looked like.”
“What do you work in? Oils? Watercolor?”
The artist swiveled to face him completely, flipped to a new piece of paper, and began drawing again. “Mostly charcoal. It’s cheap.”
“Show me.”
The young man flashed a look, clearly resisting an order, but then he turned the drawing. Head only this time, and very few lines, but again he’d caught something—and it was Canem Cave, not Mad Marcus.
“If I advance you money will you prepare an oil sketch? If I like it, I’ll pay for a completed work.”
The eyes grew wary. Here was someone else who’d learned about life in a hard school. “Which picture?” the artist asked.
“The mounted one first.”
“First?”
“If you’re as good at painting as sketches, perhaps I’ll make you my official artist.”
He’d spoken wryly, so it wasn’t surprising that the young man looked skeptical. “And who, may I ask, are you?”
Darien faced reluctance to identify himself and won through. “Viscount Darien.”
The expression stayed dubious, but a flicker showed the young man was threatened by hope. The stunning thing was that he showed absolutely no sign that Viscount Darien meant anything to him other than the possibility of patronage or disappointment.
“I’ll need five pounds, at least.” The young man was working on his sketch again, perhaps to hide his face as he bargained. “Apart from the canvas, paints and the rest, I’ll need to rent a place with better light. I’m in a cellar now.”
“Your name?” Darien asked.
The artist looked up, and then suddenly smiled. “Lucullus Armiger. Don’t think I made it up. I ask you, who would?”
Darien laughed. “What do people generally call you?”
“Luck. Which has not, thus far, been prophetic.”
“We can hope that has changed. Present yourself at Godwin and Norford in Titchbourne Street this afternoon and you’ll receive your five pounds. I expect to see the preliminary work within a week.”
Luck Armiger looked at him, still guarded, and Darien wondered if warped pride would make him balk. But then he said, “Thank you, my lord,” with simple dignity, and stood to present the drawing he’d worked on.
It was the sketch of Darien’s face, more complete now, though still doing its magic with remarkably few lines. Darien would like to study it, to understand what the artist had seen and decide whether it was true, but he handed it back. “I don’t want to fold it. Leave it with my solicitors.” He turned Cerberus, but then looked back. “You have too much talent for your situation. Why?”
“God’s gift,” Luck Armiger said, but then smiled ruefully. “A rebellious temperament doesn’t lead to patronage.”
“It won’t bother me if the work’s good.” Darien touched his hat with his crop and rode away.
A patron of the arts? He laughed at his own pretensions. What he was purchasing was a new image of himself with which to smother the foul ones.
It was probably all lies. Artists were notorious for flattering their customers. But he didn’t think Luck Armiger’s nature would permit flattery. He’d clearly been well taught and had natural talent, so he must have offended a great many customers to end up in a cellar able to afford only paper and charcoal.
A valet, a groom, an artist. What an entourage he was acquiring.
And a sycophant—Pup.
But if he were to alter course and intersect with those two gentlemen cantering nearby, the chances were that they’d see Mad Marcus Cave returned and veer away.
He didn’t alter into their path, but he looked down the long sweep of grass, then leaned to pat Cerberus’s neck. “Come on, old fellow, let’s loose Mad Dog Cave on this smug little world.”
He signaled a charge and Cerberus shot forward, clearly reveling in action as much as he did. Darien laughed aloud for the hot, familiar thrill of it and wished there were an enemy ahead to shatter with bloody force.
Chapter 19
“That’s Canem. Look at him ride!”
Thea reined in her mount and looked where Cully was pointing. A gray horse was streaking across the park far too fast for safety or propriety. “He’s mad.”
“In all the best ways.”
“Cully, it’s insane to gallop where there could be mole or rabbit holes.”
“He’ll be all right. He’s a magnificent rider.”
“Which doesn’t give him magical powers!”
Thea instantly regretted her snappish tone, but Cully’s idol had come up in conversation far too often this morning already.
She’d woken early after a restless night and desperately needed fresh air and exercise. She hadn’t wanted a decorous ride with her groom, so she’d sent a message to Cully’s barracks, asking if he were free to escort her. He had been, and they’d enjoyed some brisk canters along the paths. Her mental balance had almost been restored, and now this.
She turned her mount’s head away. “Come along. You said you were on duty soon.”
Cully turned his horse with hers, but he must have been looking back because he suddenly exclaimed, “God!” wheeled his horse, and kicked it into a gallop.
Thea turned, too, and her heart leapt into her throat. The gray pranced riderless near a figure on the ground.
Idiot! Hadn’t she predicted as much? She urged her horse flat out after her cousin, but by the time Cully arrived, Darien was sitting up, hatless but clearly unharmed.
As Darien bounced to his feet to brush himself off, Thea reined in her horse, hoping he hadn’t noticed her speed. It was too late to hope to escape his notice entirely or she might have ridden away. Sure enough, he looked around and saw her. But then he turned to his horse.
She approved, of course—his insanity had risked the animal’s life—but it stung that she counted for so little. He’d run rampant through her sleepless thoughts, and he probably accounted for some wildly peculiar dreams, but she scarcely warranted a look?
“Is he all right?” Cully asked, already off his horse. He gave his reins to Thea and joined his idol.
“I think so.” Darien was testing his horse’s gait.
Two other riders came up, but Darien said something—doubtless that all was fine—and they left.
The gray looked like a cavalry mount and even bore some scars as evidence. How did men endure riding such faithful animals into danger? She supposed there was no choice, but perhaps the navy was better. Ships did not have flesh to be torn or minds to feel terror.
“No damage at all, I don’t think,” Cully said, circling.
“Thank heaven.” Darien patted the horse’s neck then rubbed his cheek against his mount’s head. The tenderness of the gesture caught at Thea’s heart. Then the horse gently butted him. Apologetically?
It was his fault, you foolish animal. Don’t let him off so easily.
“Mole hole?” Thea asked to remind him of that.
Darien turned to her. “Possibly.” He passed the gray’s reins to Cully and walked over to her, swooping down to pick up his hat in a fluid way that showed he’d suffered no ill effect. His dark hair was in disarray, however, and dirt smudged one cheek.
Disarming.
Illusion.
“Did my folly interrupt your ride?” he asked. “I apologize.”
“You’re lucky you and the horse are unharmed. King William died in a similar accident.”
“You would have mourned?”
“I would mourn any untimely death.”
“I’m surprised you would think mine untimely,” he said.
“I don’t wish you dead, Darien. In fact, I do not think of you at all.”
“And I thought I was the bane of your life.” She glared at him and he added, “We must discuss this more tonight.”
The dinner.On impulse, Thea said, “I may not be able to attend.”
His lips twitched. “Coward.”
“Nonsense.”
“To live life avoiding risk is not to live at all, Thea.”
She met his eyes, enjoying looking down at him. “You want me to take risks? Very well.” She let go of the reins of Cully’s horse, turned her mount and called, “To the water!”
She set off in a direct line, flat out. The wind whipped at her hat and veil and she knew the man had infected her with his insanity. She could kill herself this way!
She had no hope of winning against two cavalry officers, even when they’d both been dismounted at the start, but she leaned low and tried. When she reached the water unpassed, she wheeled her horse and accused the nearest rider: “You let me win!”
Darien reined in his horse. “You never said it was a contest.”
“With you, sir, it’salways a contest.”
His eyes flashed. “How very exciting.”
Before she could rage at him, Cully reined up, protesting, “You could have killed yourself, Thea!”
“You were pleased enough at Darien racing his horse about. A lady isn’t allowed to take similar risks?”
He stared. “Well, no.”
She suddenly remembered who she was and where she was. “I’m sorry, Cully.”
“So I should think. Fine show if you broke your leg or worse when under my care.”
“Some mad impulse took me.”
“Moon madness?” Darien asked.
“It’s not a full moon, sir,” Cully pointed out.
Cully didn’t understand, but Thea did. How dare the wretched man talk of such womanly matters? He did these things deliberately to provoke her, just as Foxstall had predicted.
She turned her horse toward her cousin. “We really should get back. You’re on duty soon.”
Cully pulled out a pocket watch. “Hell!” he exclaimed, then apologized, blushing. “Canem, could you escort Thea back to Great Charles Street?”
Thea opened her mouth to protest, but Cully was already on his way at a canter, taking compliance for granted. She turned a baleful look on Lord Darien.
He raised a hand. “You can’t imagine I arranged this.”
“You could have staged that tumble.”
“What a suspicious mind you have.” He looked around. “Which way to your home?”
“Through there,” she said, pointing her crop at a gap between houses.
“A better ride via the Mall, surely.”
He was right, and Thea would feel safer in open spaces. As they headed toward the tree-lined ride, Thea realized that she had an excellent opportunity for rational discussion. She was in the open, in public, and on horseback. No wild impulses could overtake her, and even a Cave couldn’t harm her here.
“Lord Darien—”
“Call me Canem.”
She frowned at him. “No.”
“Why not? I call you Thea.”
“Without permission.”
“Goddess, then.”
“Was most interesting.”
“The discussion did not go well,” she persisted, “but if you have thought on my words, you must see sense.”
“Must I?”
