by Jo Beverley
She’d promised to link herself to a Cave, to a name that caused shudders, horror, and an expectation of violence. He’d left, but she took no comfort from that. He’d be back, terrifyingly terrific, dark and demonic, to demand his price.
She felt like some character in a folktale—Rapunzel, perhaps?—who made a foolish bargain and then could not escape her promise.
As everyone drank another toast, a breeze rustled through the trees and touched her naked back. It was as if it whispered, “Beware, lady, beware.”
Chapter 6
In a lifetime of crowded army living Darien had found that a well-run gaming hell was the ideal place for a man to be left alone with his thoughts, as long as he played and didn’t win too much.
He walked briskly toward a hell called Grigg’s, careless of light evening shoes not meant for this work. Mayfair seemed a never-ending parade of tall, narrow houses, packed neatly together in terraces. A strange preference with so many stairs for family and servants. Yet each was a place of comfort, a place of refuge, where people slept easily at night, protected from others by brick walls, locked doors, and bars on the ground-floor windows.
He had such a house now, Cave House, which had been in his family for generations. A tall, narrow collection of empty rooms. He had bricks, locks, and bars, but he felt far from safe there.
Empty rooms should provide peace and quiet, but there were other kinds of noise. Though he had no personal memories of the place, and though all trace of dark deeds had been long since scoured, whitewashed, and painted away, the silent house deafened him.
The nighttime noises were the worst, which was another reason to delay his return there. He sometimes woke to grunts, groans, and occasional screams, in a locked house shared only with a few servants. If any house deserved to be haunted, Cave House was it, but the thought of meeting any remnant of his brother, Mad Marcus Cave, made even him quake.
Given a choice, he’d never enter the house again, but he’d made it part of his plan. His living there was supposed to declare to the world that the past was past and that the new Lord Darien had nothing to be ashamed of. He laughed into the dark. His neck still crawled from being stared at and he could remember hearing: “Mad Dog Cave. What’s he doing here?”
He’d wanted to turn and bite whoever had said that.
Even without words, the subtle avoidance of him had been unignorable. It hadn’t been meant to be ignored. It had been meant to drive him away.
He’d seen Van in one room, but by that time he’d known better than to drag a friend into the mess. Later, perhaps, as a reward for victory. For now, clearly a Cave was a Cave, no matter his character and reputation, and ranked somewhat lower than a leper.
At the door of the hell he realized one irony. The warmest welcome he’d received tonight had been from Dare Debenham himself.
Immediately came the never-quite-buried memory of Debenham holding a handkerchief to a bloody nose, saying, “Cave canem.”
He slammed the door on that. It was over a decade ago, dammit, and since then he’d carved reputation and victory out of a hostile world. And now he’d do the same with the ton.
After all, the Duchess of Yeovil had thanked him tearfully. He had Debenham’s sister in his grasp—the lovely, haughty Lady Theodosia. Her name meant “God’s gift.” God’s gift to him.
He knocked on the door of the hell and was let in. Grigg’s was the sort of ill-lit place inhabited by men and women whose whole attention was fixed on cards, dice, and the EO table. No music here, or fancy refreshments. Being a Cave didn’t matter. Nothing did as long as a visitor had money to lose. Darien had made sure to lose at least as often as he won. He considered it a form of rent for usage of the space.
He sought a simple game and sat at a macao table, where he could play the odds with half his mind as he reviewed his night.
Why hadn’t he expected the ton’s reaction? Why had he expected them to see Canem Cave, military hero, instead of just another Cave, as vile as all the rest? He remembered the appalled look on Lady Theodosia Debenham’s face when he’d told her who he was. The way she’d insisted that he couldn’t be honorable….
Why hadn’t he expected to have inherited the whole mess along with the viscountcy? His raking, duelist grandfather, who’d been called Devil Cave in an age when it took a lot to summon images of Satan. His brutal father, labeled the Vile Viscount as credit for a lifetime of gross misbehavior. His uncle, “Dicker” Cave, ravisher of any vulnerable girl to cross his path.
He had expected to wear the albatross of the ultimate blot on the family’s dirty escutcheon—Mad Marcus Cave, lunatic murderer of Sweet Mary Wilmott—but not in any personal way. Not in women’s fearful eyes and men’s protective anger.
God.
No wonder his younger brother, Frank, had been rejected as a suitor.
Frank was a lieutenant in the navy, and he’d fallen in love with his admiral’s daughter. Admiral Sir Plunkett Dynnevor had warned him off. Not for being a mere lieutenant, but for being a Cave.
Darien had been outraged and had set out on this campaign to prove respectability. But now he understood. If he’d had a daughter, he’d not allow her to be tied to the Cave name for life.
Yet he’d forced Lady Theodosia into that, he thought as he gathered in some winnings, leaving one guinea counter in play.
The lady wouldn’t be a Cave for life, however, and a gilded Debenham would survive a brush with muck with little harm. Perhaps, judging by their battle of wills, she might even gain a frisson of illicit pleasure from it.
He’d met that type before and they’d often proved rewarding….
He pulled his mind back to cool analysis.
What would she do? That was the only important point. Would he win the gamble he’d taken tonight, acting on impulse as he so rarely did?
She might be even now complaining of his behavior. No matter how grateful the Debenham family was for his testimony, they’d not embrace a man who had assaulted their daughter. Instead of allies, they would become enemies.
It could even lead to a duel, and the obvious champion was her brother.
Dare Debenham had been changed by his experiences, but if he’d been shattered, he’d mended into a stronger person. The facile glitter had burned away to reveal true steel.
Not a man Darien would choose as an enemy, and definitely not one he wanted to face in a duel, if only because he was damn tired of death. In any case, this was not a matter that required death.
And all because he’d been swept off course and out of sense by a clear-eyed, arrogant, courageous, and fiercely passionate young woman.
“More brandy, sir?”
Darien started and nodded at the servant. The free brandy served here was foul stuff, but he needed something strong and he had the head for it. He knocked back half the glass, welcoming the harsh burn, and glanced at his card. An ace. He drew but was beaten by the dealer’s eight. He still had most of his counters in front of him, and played another.
There was a worse possibility.
If Debenham wasn’t up to a duel, the next in line would be the lady’s cousin, young Cully. In many ways Cully Debenham reminded Darien of his brother, Frank. The same smiling zest for life, unquenched by war, and the same belief in fundamental goodness.
Cully had been someone else Darien had avoided tonight. The lad had an unfortunate case of hero worship.
Darien vowed to flee the country before facing Cully at pistol point.
But this made him realize that he’d better get home to be available if a challenge came, and able to take whatever action was necessary. He rose, only realizing when the dealer urged him to stay that he’d doubled his money.
“The night’s young,” Darien replied, tossing a handful back to the man. “I’m on to Violet Vane’s.”
No man could protest his intention to go on to a brothel. He just hoped no one would decide to accompany him. None did. Grigg’s was for men who preferred cards to women, except
for women who’d combine both.
He walked out into the sort of damp chill for which England was famous. In Spain and Portugal he’d often missed aspects of England, but never this. It was May, but the night air crept into the bones and felt as if it would grow mold in the lungs. But then, the worthy people in their tall houses were tucked up in their warm beds at this time of night.
Or still dancing at a ball.
What would Lady Theodosia do if he returned and asked her for a dance?
Faint?
Slap his face, more likely.
That made it even more tempting.
He was actually walking in that direction. He shook his head and turned toward Hanover Square. As he walked, he rattled his silver-knobbed cane along railings. His fate for the moment was beyond his control. It now lay in the hands of a lady. Long, elegant hands concealed by gloves. Long red gloves, which suddenly made him think of an army surgeon’s hands and arms, crimson up beyond the elbows.
He shuddered at the image. How could those hands, those gloves, have been so damned erotic?
And the pearls.
White, glowing, virginal contrast to bold red.
Was she virgin or wanton? Her courage had seemed the valiance of the young and untried, but her passionate response had knocked him for a loop. But even then, something taut, something frantic, suggested that she had ignited for the first time tonight.
With him.
Lady Theodosia Debenham. Sister to his enemy. Who must hate him now and would hate him more before this was over.
Fate was a wanton, vicious jade.
Chapter 7
When the final guests left Yeovil House at dawn, Dare told the family that he’d taken his last opium. Thea knew what this meant. Though he’d tried to hide the agony of past attempts from them, he walked toward torture. And those previous attempts had failed.
This time, she’d make sure he’d succeed. What would she need for instant travel to Somerset?
“I’m going to do it at Brideswell,” he added.
“Brideswell?” It had escaped as a gasp before Thea could prevent it. Brideswell in Lincolnshire was the family home of his bride-to-be, Mara St. Bride, but they weren’t married yet.
“It’s a special place.” Dare spoke to her, because she’d let the protest out.
“Of course.” What else could she say, but it felt like a betrayal. He would soon marry Mara, but he wasn’t hers yet. His true home was still Long Chart. Who would support him at Brideswell?
Then he said, “Mara’s coming with me. Her family permits it.”
Thea smiled to hide hurt. Her reaction was stupid and unworthy, but the struggle not to show it was agonizing.
She must have failed. As everyone fussed about details, Dare came to her, already looking pale and showing other signs of a lack of his usual dose. “I need Brideswell, Thea.”
“Why?”
He found a smile. “Soon you’ll visit for the wedding and see for yourself. Feel for yourself.”
She wanted to cry, “No, I won’t!” like a spoiled child. Instead, she gave him a hug. “I know you’ll win this time.”
His arms tightened around her. “If not now, never. Thank God for Canem Cave, though I never thought to say that.”
She drew back to look at him. “Why not?”
“I’d have expected him to enjoy my discomfort.”
All Thea’s anxieties came together. “What? Why?”
“Schoolboy nonsense.” But then he shook his head. “Not really, but no matter for now.” He eased out of her arms. “Whatever his reasons, I’m grateful, so try to be kind to him.”
Kind! She clung for a moment, hiding an urge to wild laughter. She’d hoped to talk to Dare about what had happened, even if not in detail, but he was clearly hanging on to control by a thread. She kissed his cheek. “Go. Mara’s waiting.”
She was rewarded by a smile, but immediately his attention turned to his beloved, to his heart and soul, and Mara St. Bride met his eyes in the same way.
Perhaps Thea’s warped feelings were not jealousy over Dare, but envy of that love. She couldn’t imagine ever loving so intensely. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to. It seemed immoderate. Dangerous. Terrifyingly open to pain.
Like the effect of that man, that kiss.
She shook herself. That had had nothing to do with love!
A footman announced that the coach was at the door, causing a flurry of farewells, embraces, good wishes. Thea went to hug her future sister-in-law. “I know it’s not necessary, but I have to say it. Take care of him, Mara.”
“Of course,” Mara said, but then added softly, “It’s probably nothing, Thea, but I’m concerned about Viscount Darien.”
Thea came sharply alert. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” Half or more of Mara’s attention was on Dare, and he was leaving the room, glancing back to see where she was. “I sensed antagonism in him. And yet he did Dare such a favor. Dare said they had some foolish falling out at school, but that can’t explain ill feelings now.”
“What do you fear?” Thea asked, going with Mara toward the door.
“I don’t know. But…your mother is feeling deeply grateful.”
“Oh, Lord,” Thea groaned.
The Duchess of Yeovil was a wonderfully generous soul—to such an extent that her many causes required four clerks and a secretary to run them. Heaven help them all if the Cave family was the next one.
“Quite,” Mara said. “At Brideswell we often don’t hear the darkest stories and I thought the Caves merely the usual sort of trouble. Raking, drinking, bullying. But from what I heard last night, well, evil doesn’t seem too strong a word. One even committed murder.”
“I know.”
Dare called Mara’s name.
“I must go. My alarms are probably nothing, but…be wary, Thea. For all of us.”
Thea followed Mara and Dare into the pink dawn and waved until the two coaches were out of sight, sending her most sincere prayers with them. But Mara’s words jangled in her mind.
Mara had given that warning without knowing anything of Thea’s encounter or the blackmailing bargain, but it made Thea’s situation more wide-ranging. Could the man threaten her whole family?
Should she tell her parents?
But she’d made a bargain, and Vile Viscount Darien had done his part.
“You look exhausted, dear,” her mother said, putting an arm around her. “Come along to bed.”
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, howeve
r, 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.”
