by Cheryl Bolen
It had been heavenly. His new friends had given Charles the strength to stand up to his father, to throw off a good measure of the old man's chains. Charles had reveled in the attention they paid him as he followed them to the city and back. More and more he avoided his father while slipping deeper and deeper into a world of gaming and wild, reckless diversion.
He remembered the first few meetings he had attended—gatherings that had proved to be every bit as diverting as Alistair had promised. Revels in which Charles enjoyed the finest wines and foods, meetings where a dozen courtesans satisfied other appetites, some of them performing acts that were so remarkable Charles had been stunned.
The celebrants had indulged their every whim, within the walls of the ruined abbey, gorging themselves upon sweet, pure pleasure. Charles had gloried in it, reveled in the laughter, the amusement, reveled in his defiance as he tried to imitate the rakehell uncle his father had banished from England so long ago.
It had all seemed so perfect, until...
Charles paced toward the fire, extending his hands toward the flame, but the bright tongues did not warm him.
Everything had seemed so perfect until the disastrous night when his whole life had crashed in around him.
It had been the night of his initiation. The night Valmont had mocked church rites, offering up what he had claimed was the "lamb of the world." That night he'd slashed the throat of a newborn sheep while the others looked on, muttering strange incantations that had made Charles's skin crawl.
He'd been stunned, his stomach churning at the sight of the crimson blood gushing from the slash, the strange light in Alistair's eyes as he had let its warmth run over his bejeweled fingers.
Though outwardly Charles had laughed with the others, he'd been sickened, wanting only to return to his bedchamber at Darkling Moor and drive the scene from his mind. He had resolved to quit making trips to the abbey, had even begun making excuses. He might have stopped all together, could have stopped were it not for the disaster that struck him that last night.
Charles wiped his damp palms on his doeskin breeches, bile rising in his throat. A tall, gangly youth had appeared, wanting to drag his sister away from that night's revels. Who had goaded Charles into taking up the sword against the youth? Charles did not know.
He'd been drunk on fine liquor and beautiful women and stinging with the knowledge that he must soon surrender the only place he'd ever felt he'd belonged.
He'd killed a man that night. And though he'd not been the one who died that night, he had lost everything when the youth fell under his sword. Even though Malcolm Alistair had proved himself the most loyal of friends, disposing of the corpse with remarkable haste, Charles had taken the first step into an abyss.
Three days later Charles had received the first note demanding a ransom to be paid for its author's silence. More missives followed, demanding greater and greater sums, each message containing a damning scrap of information about the death of the farm boy and the abbey rituals. The information had unnerved Charles, making him feel as if the demons Alistair had tried so hard to summon really were watching over him, waiting for him to fall into the everlasting pit of fire he deserved.
Desperate, he had gone to Alistair, demanding to know if one of their brotherhood was behind the horrible scheme, or if Alistair might think the missives a sick prank. But Alistair had looked him directly in the eye, reminding him that the other revelers had been almost unconscious with drink. He'd said that none of the others would remember the happenings clearly enough to describe them in such minute detail. And Alistair himself would never stoop so.
Surely Charles could see that it would be most inconvenient for Alistair, as well, should word of their little fetes escape.
Charles had left Valmont House sick with fear and dread, unable to confide in anyone in the weeks that had followed.
He had stopped eating, starting to waste away in terror, until at last his father had confronted him, refusing to let Charles leave until the boy told him the truth.
The pain, the terror, and the regret Charles had felt over the accidental killing had burst from him, and he had sobbed like a child in his father's arms, feeling for the first time how much the man loved him. But it was that precious, fragile bond of love that had kept Charles from telling his father the full details of what had happened at the abbey. The debaucheries still filled Charles with sickness and shame.
The duke had paid the ruinous sums that were demanded, culling them from every resource at his command. And he had vowed that he would not sacrifice his son into exile as he had his younger brother, even if the Stones lost everything they possessed. William Stone had tried valiantly to find the fiend who was blackmailing his son, but in the end it had been futile. The demon seemed to have vanished back into hell.
Charles shook away the memory, fingering the objects on a small claw-foot table. Sick dread washed over him at the thought of his uncle Griffin discovering anything about the bloody mess, the horrible secret that Charles alone was responsible for the ruin of Darkling Moor, responsible for his father's death.
For if the duke had not been so obsessed with saving his son, so preoccupied in keeping Charles from harm, William would not have been so careless. He would not have tumbled off of his horse. A second horrible accident. A hideous waste. All because of Charles.
He shifted his gaze to his fingers and snatched them back, horrified, as he saw that his hand had been fondling the dried head of a mammoth python, its skin shrunken upon its frame of bone.
"You do not like my grandfather's little pet?"
The sound of a voice made Charles nearly leap through the ceiling, and he spun about. Alistair stood bare inches away.
"Is—is it not enough that you have kept me waiting all this time? Must you also be so rude as to creep up behind a guest?"
"And frighten him?" Even without lead paint the marquess's face was pale, as though it had never known the kiss of the sun. His lips curved in a most charming smile. "You must forgive me, dearest. My tardiness is inexcusable."
"It is all right. I'm afraid I've been a trifle preoccupied."
"Preoccupied?" Alistair questioned with concern. "And I thought we had managed to drive all tiresome worries from your head. Pray tell, what can be of enough import to so trouble one of my own?"
"It is my uncle. Lord Griffin."
Alistair emitted a sneering laugh. "Ah, his illustrious, most respectable lordship. Scion of the infernally boring. Surely, Charles, you are not child enough to pay him any heed."
"I—I would not, except this morning he barged into my bedchamber enraged."
"What grave crime were you guilty of? Taking a shilling without his permission?"
"I don't know. I am not certain what it was about." Charles slipped his fingers into his waistcoat pocket, withdrawing the crumpled bit of vellum therein. "He but stormed in and waved this missive beneath my nose, demanding to know what devilment I was about."
Alistair reached out his bony fingers, plucking the letter from Charles's hand. The boy shifted from one foot to the other, twisting his ring as the marquess skimmed the lines. His eyes shone with keen interest.
"Ah, so Tom Southwood is nosing about in other people's concerns."
"I fear that—that he has somehow discovered what happened that night, when there—there was the accident."
"Accident? As I remember, it was quite deliberate, my sweet. A brilliant thrust to—what was it? The heart?"
"Damn it, Valmont, don't!" Charles cried in a sick voice. "It is no jest to me, no grand lark. It was murder, pure and simple. The boy scarcely knew what end of the sword to hold."
"I fear I cannot understand these subtleties of honor you seem prey to. If you'd not dealt with the ragged wretch, he would have been quite happy to kill you, I am certain. Then you would be rotting in the bottom of Killey's well, and he would be off grubbing potatoes or whatever that sort do."
"Alistair, I do not take this lightly. A boy died tha
t night, and someone is threatening to tell."
"Not as long as you keep humoring them with money, boy. Of course, you could always go off to the wilds of the colonies, or else take up residence at Newgate with the rest of the cutthroats."
Charles felt the blood drain from his face, and he gripped the edge of the table to steady himself.
"Now, now, don't go off into such a taking," Alistair soothed. "Believe me, dearest, there is nothing to fear from men like Tom Southwood or your uncle, nor from the author of these mysterious notes. You are one of my own, now, Charles, and I will protect you."
Charles shifted beneath the weight of those odd amber eyes. "I just want this to be over. Finished. I want the nightmare to end."
"You are just feeling a bit overwrought, Charles. Why, it was not that long ago that your father took that most unfortunate fall from his horse. It is little wonder you are so skittish." Alistair grasped Charles's trembling arm with his cold hand, guiding him toward the doorway. "You must go home now, my dearest, drink a decanter full of port, and vent your loins on some hot-mouthed serving girl. You will feel much better in the morning, I suspect."
"N-nothing will ever make me feel better," Charles whispered, drowning in hopelessness as he stumbled toward his coach. "It will never, never end."
Alistair's brow arched as the boy clambered into the dark coach. "Ah, my poor, misguided pet," he muttered to himself with a gloating smile. "Nightmares never do end. Therein lies their power."
Chapter 14
The day was bright as a new guinea. Sunlight streamed across the bedchamber from the windows Beau had flung open at dawn.
She perched on the narrow stone window ledge, her new gown of blue watered silk a bright splash of color against Darkling Moor's stone walls. Her feet dangled, encased in blue satin slippers with glittering diamond shoe buckles that sent reflections of rainbows spilling across Beau's skirts.
Griffin had promised to do better by her, and in the past few days he'd proved to be as good as his word. A few mornings ago she had awakened to find a dozen seamstresses lost in a sea of brocades and taffetas, silks and satins. Costly laces had crested the waves of fabric as if they were no more than sea foam, and jewels, from translucent pearls to flashy, bold emeralds and diamonds, had been scattered about like seed for a flock of hungry chickens.
The band of seamstresses had had Beau at their mercy for three days. It had been hard to keep from snapping and snarling at them when they accidentally stuck her with pins or left her standing for what seemed like hours but in the end she began to enjoy seeing their glorious creations.
Although she'd rather die than admit it. The first day there had been one bloody rebellion when Beau swore she would cleave out the gizzard of anyone who attempted to truss her up in stays again.
But fortunately for all concerned, Griffin had heard the commotion from his study and had smoothed things over, settling the question in Beau's favor before she took a scissors to Madame Charmande's petticoats.
His lips had been curved in the slightest smile as he had paced over to her, spanning her waist with his hands. "Look, Madame Charmande," he had addressed the seamstress in charge. "Have you ever seen a woman with such a willowy waist, even one who is all crammed into one of those infernal contraptions you ladies are wont to wear?"
Beau's stomach had gone fluttery, and she'd forced a cocky grin. "You can put 'em in the fire with my breeches, Stone," she'd warned. "Because the next one who comes at me with one of those torture devices will be wearing it around his throat."
With great ceremony Griffin had taken up the offensive article and left the room, holding it far from his body, as if it were a repugnant snake.
After that Griffin had poked his head into the sewing room with great regularity, giving his opinion on everything from the amount of lace to be caught at a morning gown's cuffs to what kind of edging should be sewn onto a chemise.
Beau had teased him unmercifully about his knowledge of women's intimate apparel, scandalizing the servants and sewing women alike. But Griffin had only laughed, his eyes twinkling and his mouth curving with pleasure.
Beau smiled at the memory now as the breeze kissed her cheeks and toyed with the little tendrils that had escaped the chignon a quivering maid had coaxed her hair into that morning.
Stone had a beautiful laugh, she thought, trying to get a gauzy butterfly to land on the outstretched toe of her slipper. The man should definitely laugh more often. But she imagined that there was not much to be merry about in the dark, brooding study in which Stone sequestered himself for long hours every day. Each time Griffin left the dim room the muscles were tightly drawn over the bones of his face, his eyes dulled with frustration and exhaustion.
Beau sighed as a cloud darted before the sun. Blast it to hell, she was beginning to like Griffin Stone far too much, beginning to take tally of the worry lines in his brow, the grimness hovering about his mouth. She was beginning to seek the man out and try to think of some outrageous quip that might amuse him.
It was absurd, this fascination she had with him, and yet... every time she looked at the wardrobe now bursting with beautiful gowns, every time some servant delivered a new trinket Stone had decided no lady should be without, every time he tugged her curls or laughed at her jests, Isabeau felt something stir deep inside her. Something wonderful. Something new.
A furtive sound behind Beau made her wheel, leaping to her feet in the tall window casing. She'd half expected to find the dowager duchess gliding toward her, ready to push her out the casement. But instead there was only a scrawny maid, shaking so hard her teeth were chattering.
"You witling!" Beau snapped. "You nearly made me jump out that window, sneaking up on me like some kind of cutthroat."
"Y-yer pardon, miss. Oh, please, miss, d-don't take on so," the girl blathered, eyeing Beau's precarious perch with white-faced fear. "I wasn't sneakin', I was—was jest comin' up to give ye a message from his lordship, like he told me to do."
"His lordship?" Beau asked with a little skip of pleasure.
"Aye, miss, 'e said 'twas time t'start yer schoolin', but... Lor' have mercy, miss, don't go divin' out onto the cobbles," the girl wailed. "My lord would be in a most terrible temper if ye did."
Remembering how she'd stopped the very same housemaid from scolding a stable lad to tears yesterday noon, Beau bounced nearer the edge of the crumbling stone ledge. With the greatest of glee she pretended to teeter there, her arms flailing in the open space. The servant shrieked as Beau started to fall, but at the last instant Beau leapt down from the ledge, landing on her slipper-clad feet, laughing uproariously.
The maidservant's face washed a dull red, and huge, gulping sobs coming from her chest. "Shame! For shame on you, miss, scaring me like that! Serve you right if my heart had jest stopped and I'd died right on the spot."
"And it would have served you right if I had cleaved your gullet clean yesterday, when you were hounding poor Martin," Beau said. "But fortunately for the both of us, the world seems a bit short on justice right now. So if you will just tell me where I am to meet my lord, you can go back to the kitchens and tell all the rest of the servants what a witch I am."
The maid was only too happy to comply.
Without a backward glance Isabeau dashed down the corridor, her skirts caught up to her knees as she bounded down the stairs two at a time.
Breathless, she raced into the rose salon, only Griffin's strong arms stopping her before she could overturn a table set with priceless porcelain. Beau gasped, laughing as she slammed up against his hard chest. And she stayed there, pressed against him, pretending to steady herself.
"Mistress DeBurgh, a lady does not charge into a chamber as if a ravening wolf were at her heels," Griffin said, placing one finger beneath her chin and tipping her head back so he could peer into her face. "A lady enters a room gracefully, a feast for the senses, a delight to the eye."
"To wait upon a husband who is a pain in the arse?" Beau asked with a w
icked grin.
Griff choked on a laugh. "Absolutely not, milady. You see, the word 'arse' is not even in the vocabulary of the well-bred lady, nor, I might add, are 'damnation,' 'blood and thunder,' or any of the other colorful phrases you are so fond of."
"I see. I suppose that ladies are only allowed to say 'yes, milord' and 'no, milord' and 'whatever you bloody say, milord.' "
"Not so. You are also allowed to ask if any of your guests need tea. You are to inquire if the honorable Mrs. Malaprop's darling boy has recovered from his bout of biliousness. Why, any number of—"
"Deadly dull things. I shall go mad being a lady, Stone. I know it," Beau cried mournfully.
Griffin laughed. "Well, perhaps we should leave the art of polite conversation for later, my dear, after we've tidied up some of your, er, rougher edges. We wouldn't want your reformation to be too much of a shock. Shall we begin again?"
"If my lord wishes it," Beau said in a syrupy tone.
He swept her a courtly bow. "Good morrow, Mistress DeBurgh. You are looking in tolerable good health."
Beau dimpled, quelling a giggle. "Why, my lord Stone, such a pleasant surprise! How have you been keeping yourself of late?"
"Neck-deep in trouble, I fear. And you?"
"Aside from breaking some more of that glass frippery you've got scattered all over this place—"
"And terrorizing the maids, and fleecing the footmen at dice," Griffin interrupted sternly.
Beau gave him a saucy toss of her head. "I have been doing quite wondrously well."
Griffin choked back a laugh. "We shall see about that, you impertinent baggage. Go stand over there by the fireplace so I can look at you."
Beau felt a prickle of pleasure. She knew that the blue silk set off her fiery hair to perfection and made her eyes shine.
"Hmm," Griffin murmured. "The gown is highly acceptable. Just enough gallon trim touched about to make it shimmer. The lace seems a bit coarse, though, next to your skin. I wonder if I should commission spiders to weave a web to use as lace for your gowns, fairy princess."
