Lady Beware

by Jo Beverley

  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’s always 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.”

  She inhaled. Squabbling would serve no purpose. “We need to talk. Last night…”

  “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?”

  His tone was unreadable, and a glance showed a face that offered no more clues.

  “You have my parents’ approval, Darien. Last night you were thrust into the inner circle—”

  “Thrust?” He sounded startled and amused.

  “Rammed, if you prefer.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  She glared at him. “Why are you laughing at me? This is a serious matter.”

  He sobered. “Most definitely.”

  “Thank you. As I explained last night, a peculiar betrothal would be counterproductive. It would swell interest and speculation rather than shrinking it. You agree?”

  “To shrinking rather than swelling?” He sounded dubious.

  “You can’t want even more scrutiny.”

  “Can’t I, Goddess?”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  “You are a most demanding and unreasonable woman.”

  “I am all reason if you’d only pay attention.” She studied him more closely. “Did you bang your head in that fall?”

  He laughed, which was enough to throw her completely off balance.

  Then he said, “Very well.”

  “Very well, what?”

  “I’m willing to consider your point that a betrothal is unnecessary. But if I release you from your promise—and it was a promise, my lady, don’t deny it—what will you give me in return?”

  “Why, you…!” But Thea knew her opponent. He would require something.

  She might be able to get away with very little in return while he was in this strange mood, but she wanted to nail this shut. And she had promised.

  “My unstinting support,” she said. “I will be your approving companion in public on every possible occasion.”

  He considered her. “Word of a goddess?”

  “Word of a Debenham.”

  “Done.”

  She laughed with relief. “Thank you!”

  “So delighted to jilt me—”

  “Not precisely jilt.”

  “—but your agreeable company will be compensation.”

  “For six weeks only,” she said, wishing she’d made that clear.

  “For six weeks,” he agreed—so easily that she began to worry. What had she overlooked?

  “Good,” she said. “Then let’s consider strategy.”

  “I think you mean tactics.”

  “Do I? What’s the difference?”r />
  “Strategy is the overall plan. Tactics are specifics when faced with the enemy.”

  “I believe we need both, then.”

  “We have our strategy, drawn up, I think, by your mother, whom you did compare to Wellington. We are the ground troops, putting it into execution. Do you play chess?”

  “No.”

  “Pity. It’s an excellent simulation of war.”

  “This is not precisely war, Darien,” she objected. “It’s more like diplomacy.”

  “You, Lady Thea, have not been feeling the sharp edge of the sword.”

  “Oh, have I not? It’s been extremely uncomfortable, and it’s going to grow worse before it gets better. But you mustn’t think of it as war. Truly. You can’t rampage around killing people—”

  “You have a strange notion of war.”

  “We need to employ subtlety,” she persisted. “A slow invasion rather than a violent thrust.”

  “Or a slow thrust?” he said, and his eyes were bright again.

  “There’s no such thing as a slow thrust,” she said.

  “A slow slide, then?”

  That fall. He truly was, as they said, dicked in the knob, but she’d take advantage of it.

  “If you wish,” she said. “You must be gentle as you enter the inner circle.”

  She heard a choke. “Absolutely. And delightful to contemplate.”

  What did she do if he started to vomit? “No, Darien, it will be difficult,” she explained patiently. “There will be resistance, perhaps strong resistance.”

  “Poor lady.”

  “I’m glad you realize how uncomfortable this will be for me.”

  “I wish I could make it otherwise.”

  She looked at him. He sounded sincere. She might be able to gain more concessions, but it seemed like taking unfair advantage of an imbecile.

  “Just do as I say,” she instructed firmly.

  “Your every wish will be my command.” But there was that glint again.

  “Are you drunk, Darien?” That could explain his fall. Surely cavalry officers were not so easily unhorsed.

  He suddenly laughed. “Only on you, my goddess, only on you. You delight me, always.”