Rebels, Rakes & Rogues

by Cheryl Bolen

  "Your ward?" The duchess's thin brows arched.

  "Mistress Isabeau DeBurgh," Griff said with a devil's grin. "I regret to say she has been suffering from a malaise for the past two days, but tonight will mark her full recovery."

  Griffin felt a niggling guilt that he hadn't even glanced in upon the patient. But his nerves, already frayed by William's ledgers, had not been up to doing battle with a disgruntled highwayman.

  He resolved to make it up to her as best he could.

  "I will be presenting Mistress DeBurgh to you at dinner this evening," he said breezily. "And, should I perish in the interim, she will be my vengeance upon you from the grave. Even roasting in Hades I could take joy in watching the pair of you rend each other limb from limb."

  "I'll not be saddled with any common—"

  "Mistress DeBurgh is far from common, Grandmama. That much I assure you. And she loathes me as much as you do. Think how entertaining it will be for the pair of you to plot my demise."

  Chapter 8

  A hundred candles lit the vast dining hall, and each tiny tongue of flame seemed to bore into Griffin's skull like a gnome king's trident. If he had found some peace during his hard ride across the parklands, any serenity had vanished the moment he had crossed Darkling Moor's threshold once more.

  He peered down the length of the mahogany table with its scores of vacant carved chairs. The dowager duchess sat at the head, ensconced in regal splendor. Swathed in deep black mourning clothes, with her face set in harsh lines, she looked ready to burst with indignation and outrage.

  Her grace had been annoyed when Charles had informed her he was traveling to London for a few days; Griffin had been none too amused himself, since he suspected the boy was avoiding their confrontation over finances.

  But the duchess's mood had become black as the gates of hell when her precisely ordered schedule was disrupted even further.

  Isabeau was late.

  Griffin's own temper was held only slightly in check. Beau should have been in the dining room nearly half an hour ago, he thought, and she bloody well knew it. He had warned her to be prompt or prepare to face his considerable wrath.

  Yet in spite of the inexorable march of time marked by Griff’s golden pocket watch, no fiery-tempered young woman appeared. Nor was there any sign of the quavering maid he had sent to fetch her.

  He almost ground his teeth in aggravation, but he refused to give his grandmother the satisfaction of knowing he was annoyed. But despite his outward composure, his anger grew.

  Restive footmen lined the frescoed wall like an impatient army awaiting its general's command. A dozen elegant dishes emitted heavenly scents from beneath their silver covers. Griffin knew that soon they'd lose what little heat remained within them.

  The delicate concoctions that the dowager duchess's French cook, Alphonse, had slaved over were deteriorating with each second that ticked by, the sauces thickening into lumpy masses, the butter melting, the once yeasty, warm bread hardening into cold slabs.

  The dowager duchess's discomfiture was the single fact in which Griffin could find a grim modicum of pleasure.

  "That person is late." The sound of her voice in the suffocating silence almost made a gangly young servant drop a salver full of roasted capons. Griffin's eyes widened in mock surprise as he regarded his grandmother.

  "Late?" he echoed. "I had not noticed."

  "No doubt a civilized meal is far beneath your concern, since it has nothing to do with gaming or wenching. However, I do not intend to lower myself to your barbaric standards, despite your position in this household. If that ward of yours does not present herself at once—"

  "Then we will both be eating our meal a good deal colder than Alphonse intended." Griffin glared at his grandmother, his jaw knotting. "I commanded Mistress DeBurgh's presence."

  The duchess snorted. "You? Commanded?" She gave an ugly laugh. "Well, that explains it. We shall sit here until we are starved to death."

  Griffin’s lips hardened in a brittle smile. "I warn you, madam, do not bait me further. Though I'm not a youth, my temper remains unchanged. And I promise you I will take whatever steps I deem necessary to maintain my sanity while I sort out this mess you and my nephew have made of William's estates."

  "Indeed!" The dowager duchess huffed. "Of all the insolent—"

  "I shall even crawl so low," Griff said with steely accents, "as to banish you to your dower house for the duration of my stay if you test me."

  "You wouldn't dare!"

  The corner of Griffin's mouth lifted in a taut smile. "Actually, Grandmama, nothing would give me greater pleasure."

  Their eyes locked for long seconds, as though the dowager duchess was gauging the mettle of her hated adversary. White-hot as Griffin’s anger was, he revealed nothing in his gaze. He was well aware that any display of weakness would prove a lethal weapon in Judith Stone's hand.

  A score of times she had glared at him thus, until he had at last looked away. But this time it was she who ended their contest, a small surrender.

  Even that tiny victory felt hollow to Griff. He yawned as though unaware she had withdrawn from the field of battle. "For all that I find your opinions tiresome, your grace," he said, waving one hand toward the food, "I fear that this waiting is becoming even more wearying. Perhaps poor Isabeau is daunted by the idea of dining in the midst of such august company. I fear she is... er... afflicted by most delicate sensibilities."

  "Maybe if you had had the manners to introduce me to the girl before now, she would not be off hiding in her rooms! How I despise cowardly milksop chits!"

  Griffin turned away from the duchess in an effort to hide his smile. But when he glanced out the open door he saw one of the maids who had been subject to Beau's temper.

  "Ah, Allison," Griff called to her. "Come forward."

  The servant froze, cornered, her hands clenching her duster. "Yer—yer lordship," the woman whined, bobbing him a curtsy, "I mustn't... I don't..."

  "Do you not think Mistress DeBurgh bears a most... original temperament?"

  "Original?" The servant choked. "Aye, sir."

  "I am most eager for her grace to make my ward's acquaintance. You will hasten to Mistress DeBurgh's chambers at once," Griff said with deceptive mildness, "and you will tell her that there is nothing for her to fear here below."

  "F-fear, my lord?"

  "Just so, Allison. Tell Mistress DeBurgh that I have said she needn't shrink from dining with her betters. That we will make allowances for her... timidity."

  For a moment Griffin thought the maid would fall into apoplexy rather than face Isabeau again.

  "You tell Mistress DeBurgh exactly what I said, mind," he bade the poor quivering maid in unyielding tones. "Exactly. "

  "A-aye, milord," the woman answered faintly. She turned toward the grand staircase and Griffin glimpsed her making the sign of the cross as she disappeared behind the marvelously wrought carvings.

  As though from a great distance, Griffin heard his grandmother's continued grumblings, but all his attention was focused on the open doorway. Anticipation raced through his veins as he awaited Isabeau's appearance—the same wild, excitement and danger he used to feel when taking up his sword against some skilled opponent.

  For Isabeau DeBurgh was as much of a challenge as any duel he had ever fought. And Griff knew full well that his words would flush Beau from her lair.

  It seemed bare seconds before sounds of some disturbance reverberated through the corridors, drifting down the staircase like the alarms of battle. Griffin's muscles tensed, and he fingered the signet ring that glinted upon his left hand.

  A high-pitched wail pierced the air, followed by shrieks and pleas that seemed to set the prisms upon the chandelier tinkling against each other.

  Then the deeper voices of the male servants joined in, their protests peppered with Isabeau's most colorful curses.

  Griff glimpsed the dowager duchess's face. His grandmother was almost seething with arist
ocratic outrage. "Griffin!" she railed, addressing him by his Christian name for the first time since he'd returned to Darkling Moor. "What is the meaning of—"

  Crash!

  Griffin didn't even flinch at the sound of shattering china. He leveled his gaze at his grandmother and fought to maintain an aura of solemnity. "I fear Isabeau is a trifle clumsy with bric-a-brac."

  "Out of my way, you gutter scum!" A voice rife with fury lanced through the room. All eyes snapped to the open doorway. The sharp hiss of a dozen people catching their breath echoed through the chamber as a small but mighty figure struggled in the midst of a cluster of agitated servants.

  Griff caught the flash of fire-red hair and snow-white cloth. Then a burly underfootman thudded rump-first onto the floor, knocking over the beleaguered lad who had been balancing the tray full of capons. With a cry of dismay the boy let fly the heavy serving dish, raining roasted fowl upon the footman, the floor, and Isabeau's feet.

  Her feet. Griffin's gaze locked upon the rose-blushed bare toes upon the chill marble floor. Disbelief streaked through him as he focused on thin white cloth pooling in disarray upon the polished stone. His gaze flashed upward to the meager veil of cloth that outlined her long legs and slim hips, the fabric anchored above firm but obviously unbound breasts by Isabeau's clenched fists.

  Her shoulders were thrown back in defiance, her flowing hair cascading well past her hips, while her eyes—those huge, magnificent eyes—were alive with fury and courage and a challenge that made Griffin's loins fire with a fierce, wild need.

  Desire and a grudging respect for her daring surged through Griffin as she stood defiant before him garbed in... what was it? A bed sheet?

  "Mistress DeBurgh," Griff intoned ominously, uncertain as to whether to strangle her or kiss her, "I scarce consider bed linens proper attire for dinner."

  "Well, you would have considered the alternative a damned sight less proper!"

  "The alternative?" Griff rose to his feet. "Something original? Like clothing, perhaps?"

  "Clothing?" Beau sputtered, stalking toward him. "You burned my bloody breeches, if you recall! My favorite breeches." She brandished one small fist inches from his nose. "You should.be bloody thanking me for not setting your infernal grandmother on her ear by trekking down here naked as a newborn babe! Though I vow it was tempting!"

  Naked, Griffin thought, astonished. Dear God, had the girl been imprisoned in her bed these past three days without a stitch to cover her? Considering that she'd all but unmanned him in their last encounter, it almost seemed a just revenge.

  An apology half formed on his lips as he glanced from her flushed, indignant, strangely beguiling face to that of his grandmother. But the words died as he stared, stunned.

  At the end of the table the dowager duchess stood, mouth gaping. Her eyes were wide with such a singular expression that Griffin knew he would never forget it. And at that moment he was certain that Isabeau DeBurgh had worked a miracle.

  Judith Stone, Dowager Duchess of Ravensmoor, had been struck dumb.

  The absurdity of the situation sent pure, raw delight through him, and he sank into his chair, roaring with laughter.

  Through his merriment he saw Isabeau's cheeks flush, her mouth setting. Then a small bare foot slammed into his shin with surprising force. Pain shot up his leg, but he only laughed harder still as Beau yelped, grasping her bruised toes with one hand.

  "You son of a jackass! You hurt—"

  "A th-thousand pardons for placing my shin in front of your f-foot!" Griff leaned against the table for support, swiping the dampness from his eyes. "Next time you attack, I'd suggest you wear... shoes...."

  His stomach ached from laughing, and he wanted to go on so forever, but as he struggled to catch his breath he heard the quelling swish of velvet skirts, the dowager duchess's militant step as she stalked toward them.

  When his vision cleared, his grandmother's face was close to his, her features distorted with anger. "I cannot believe this debauchery, even of you!" she railed, fairly quivering with rage. "It is heinous to bring this—this person to your family's home. This common doxy to play at bed games with—"

  "I'm no whore!" Beau rounded upon the duchess. "And even if I were, I'd sooner sleep with my horse than with your precious grandson!"

  Griffin choked and pounded on his chest with one fist in an effort to clear his lungs. "Your—your flattery puts me to the blush, milady. But I fear I intend to play no games with you save polishing you up to become a gem of the ton. "

  "The ton?" the duchess shrieked.

  "Aye, Grandmama. And you will have the honor of presenting her."

  "I'd as soon rig out a swine to be presented to my peers!" Blue veins pulsed beneath Judith Stone's skin.

  "You can take your snuff-nosed society and stuff it in a chamber pot, your worship!" Beau blazed, instinctively hating this haughty witch of a woman with her fish-cold eyes.

  "Your grace, Beau." Griffin put his hand to his mouth to stifle a grin. "The correct form of address is—"

  "I don't care if she's the Blessed Virgin!" Beau raged on, infuriated at his amusement. "I don't need her greedy-fisted, pinch-nosed 'ristocrat friends. I'm the boldest highw—"

  "Isabeau!"

  Beau was stunned into silence by the death-grim warning she read in his handsome face. When her eyes met his, what she saw there rocked her to the center of her being. Fear. Of all the emotions she had expected to see, she had never expected to see fear.

  Judith Stone's sharp scrutiny turned upon Beau, and she felt as though some malevolent god was inspecting her. And at that instant Beau silently pleaded with every saint she had ever blasphemed to shield her from the dowager duchess. The saints must have listened, for after a moment Judith Stone turned again upon her grandson.

  "I'll not have this savage beneath my roof a moment longer," the duchess said. "Mark me, Griffin."

  "Ah, but you keep forgetting"—Griffin gave an eloquent shrug—"this is no longer your roof to deny. I am trustee now. And you'd best pray that I am able to pull this dukedom away from the abyss, for if I don't, there will be no more Ravensmoor left."

  "Pray?" The duchess laughed. "Aye, when I heard you were returning to England, I vow I prayed—prayed every night that your ship would carry you to the bottom of the sea! You should be dead!” Her cruel words snaked out like whipcords. “You should be dead instead of my William!"

  Silence fell in suffocating waves over the room. The shock of the servants mingled with Beau's own sick horror. Ever since she had attempted to rob Stone's coach she had hoped for any manner of calamity to befall the high and mighty lord. But now... now she was astonished to discover that she ached for the man.

  She wanted to touch his clenched fingers, wanted to shield him somehow from the old woman's viciousness. But she feared that to do so would strip away his pride.

  Just when she thought she couldn't bear the crushing tension any longer Griffin's sensual mouth tipped into a smile that burned into Beau's very soul.

  "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Grandmama," he said, low, "but then I always did."

  Beau watched as the duchess spun away, sweeping from the chamber like some velvet-clad kestrel wearied of her prey. There was a soft shifting sound as Griffin lowered himself again into his seat, his broad shoulders slightly bowed, his eyes hooded.

  "I find I am not as hungry as I thought," he said to the servants. "You may... offer my apologies to Alphonse."

  Glad of the excuse to escape, the servants hastened from the room, leaving Griffin and Beau alone.

  Beau started to edge toward the door, wanting to offer Griffin the only gift within her power—solitude. But he raised his fingers in a gesture to stop her.

  "Beau..." He did not look at her, but she could feel his humiliation. "I'll have a tray sent up to your chambers. You... you're scarce recovered from your wound, and—"

  "It troubles me not at all," she interrupted, stunned at how desperately she wanted to ease his hurt.


  "I'm glad," he said. "Forgive me for... for subjecting you to this... debacle. And for neglecting to secure you some gowns. It was most rude of me."

  "You are always unforgivably rude, my lord," she said, her throat thick. "But... but it makes you almost tolerable for an aristocrat cur."

  Griffin's forced laugh was devoid of amusement, devoid of life.

  She caught her lip between her teeth to stop it from quivering then turned to flee. At the doorway she hesitated wishing she could offer some small comfort, but the words faded on her lips. Her eyes burned as she saw the dauntless Griffin Stone bury his face wearily in his strong, bronzed hands.

  Chapter 9

  The night was black as a brigand's cape, the moon a thin crescent that glimmered like the edge of a sword. Beau pressed her hand against the cool pane of glass, wishing she could slip into the darkness, far away from the rich brocade that hung about the vast bed, far away from the thick carpets, the elegant china figurines, and far away from the man who made her feel such strange, haunting emotions.

  Griffin... She closed her eyes, trying to banish his image: his hair rich and dark and silken caught at the nape of a tanned neck, his blue eyes that twinkled with a devilment that matched Beau's own, and a mouth that it would have driven any doxy in Blowsy Nell's to pure ecstasies.

  Beau's fingers clenched upon the window latch, and she unbolted it, flinging the casement wide, hoping the night wind would cool the heat stealing through her body.

  How long had it been since she had experienced this kind of tugging at her heart? This sensation that some silken thread of kinship linked her to another's soul?

  Since her father's death Isabeau had viewed emotional entanglements as a disease like the pox or the plague. And though she had friends, she had always kept part of herself hidden safely away.