by Jo Beverley
“Some ladies enjoy notoriety,” her dashing husband teased.
“No lady enjoys notoriety,” Maria corrected firmly.
“And thus a large section of the ton is unnobled,” said Van with a grin.
“Please,” drawled St. Raven, “don’t preach that nobility is entirely of the soul or these days we’ll have to clap you in irons for treason and rebellion.”
There was a brief, serious discussion of unrest and the sensible and idiotic ways the government was trying to deal with it, but then Frank lightened the mood with an account of Pup’s ghostly play, and Hawkinville added a story of a brush with Pup that Darien had never heard.
“It was good of you to take care of him, Canem,” Clarissa Hawkinville said, “rather than passing him on. It must have been confusing and worrying to be him.”
“It was definitely confusing and worrying for everyone else,” Darien said. “Don’t make me into a saint. Once he became Canem’s Pup, what could I do?”
“Let him drown in the Loire,” Van said, meeting Darien’s eyes for a moment before describing another hopeless subaltern he’d encountered.
There was no more talk of death and disorder, so it was a strange end to a dire day—a pleasant evening among, yes, friends.
Before leaving, however, Darien made an opportunity to talk with Maria. “Do you know how Thea is?”
Her eyes were kind but concerned. “It was a horrible experience. She’s badly shaken.”
“But her wounds aren’t serious?”
“Oh, no. Did no one reassure you on that? They were only shallow cuts, but how cruel to do that simply to terrify her and you. The whole plan was vile. I’m glad you killed him.”
“But is Thea?”
Her look was sympathetic. “I don’t know. I haven’t intruded. What are your plans?”
Delicately indirect. “When Parliament breaks up, I’ll take Frank to Stours Court to look around the old place. He suggested tearing it down, and that might be the right idea. I do need to think of something to do with Cave House. I won’t live in it again, but it can’t be left empty. I’ve tried to rent or sell it, but no takers.”
He hadn’t answered her true question, but she didn’t press him.
The next morning Darien sent a message to the Duchess of Yeovil, asking if he should call. He didn’t want to put anyone to the inconvenience of turning him away at the door. The reply came swiftly. He was expected, and she and Thea were to begin their journey in an hour.
He dressed with particular care, and then walked the short distance, aware of a ridiculous urge to run. Every minute on the journey was a minute less with Thea. But his interview with her would doubtless be short anyway. When he passed a flower seller he bought a posy of fragrant sweet peas, but then felt foolish arriving with them in his hand.
He was admitted to the house by an impassive footman, but it was the same one who’d admitted him yesterday, with Thea in his arms. Doubtless many reactions were spinning behind the professional gloss.
The duchess came out of one of the reception rooms, smiled at the flowers, and invited him into that room. Not good. He was not to be admitted to the family’s part of the house.
Thea was there, however, standing sideways to the empty fireplace, as if braced for something. She looked drawn and tired and he longed to take her into his arms.
“Here’s Darien,” the duchess said, and left, closing the door.
Darien looked at the door for a moment in surprise, and then turned back to the woman he adored. The woman he must set free. So why the devil had he brought her flowers? The perfume was rising from them, threatening to fill the small room.
She was dressed for travel in a sensible blue-gray gown that did nothing for her color. The bodice was fairly low, but filled with ruched white that ended with a small frill around her neck. Her hair was dressed in a neat knot on top of her head and she wore small pearls in her ears. He remembered her in red.
He could think of nothing to say other than an inadequate, “How are you?”
“Quite well,” she said.
He had to go to her and offer the flowers. She took them with a slight smile, raising them to her face to inhale. “Lovely.” She gestured toward the sofa. “Won’t you sit?”
She did so first, hands in her lap, holding the posy. He took a place at the other end of the sofa, wondering why he hadn’t planned this encounter with care.
“Your wounds?” he asked.
“Shallow, but they still sting. And yours?”
“The same.”
She looked at him closely. “How are you?”
“Quite well. It’s a blessing that Frank turned up.” He’d found a subject he could talk about. “He’s no longer my baby brother and I’m well taken care of.” A few moments later, he realized he was babbling on about Frank like a doting parent. Or like a man desperate not to say what was in his heart. “I’m sorry.”
She was smiling, breathing in the flowers again. “Don’t be. I’m glad you have family at last. And he was a godsend yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“So,” she said, still buried in blossoms, “we’re engaged to marry.”
“Your father thought it best.”
She looked at him. “And you?”
“It will cover some of the peculiarities. I’m sorry that a bit of scandal will always linger over that event. And that you’ll have to jilt me.” He attempted a smile, but she didn’t echo it.
“Or not,” she said.
He looked at her wide, defiant eyes, and said what she was braced for. “It won’t work, Thea.”
“Don’t I get a say?”
“No. You’ve seen, twice, what I’m like. It’s my nature. I’ve known no true peace all my life and few trustworthy friends. If trouble doesn’t come and find me, I’ll probably find it and deal with it bloodily. You won’t like that.”
“Both times you were saving me.” She straightened out of the flowers to declare, “I do get a say.”
“Thea, love—” That was a mistake.
“If you love me it’s nonsense to let this go.”
He surged to his feet and put distance between them. “Love is not enough.”
“Love is precious.”
“Love doesn’t always survive.”
“But what if it never comes again, like this? For either of us?”
He kept his back to her, resisting her plea.
“Darien,” she said, “I’m holding you to our bargain.”
He turned. “What bargain?”
“That we decide in autumn.”
Hope stirred, that struggling, crippled thing in his chest that he should kill. “It was, I believe, until you returned to London.”
“I’m holding you to the spirit of the original promise,” she said steadily. “To see how our feelings survive. In any case, we have to remain betrothed for some weeks to let the world forget about the origins.” She smiled slightly. “You can’t stop me, after all. Unless you plan to jilt me, and that will ruin the Cave reputation.”
He stared at her, speechless.
“Since it’s uncertain when Parliament will begin again later in the year, shall we say the beginning of autumn? In September?”
“It appears that I have no say.”
She rose, poised and graceful, his flowers in her hands. “You may say no in September. If you wish to.”
“As may you.”
“Of course. Did you remember a ring?” she asked.
It took him a moment to follow her and understand. A curse almost escaped. “I’m sorry. I’ll…”
She took one out of her pocket and offered it on the palm of her hand. “You’ve had many things on your mind. And it really didn’t seem fair to have you purchase one on such a hypothetical basis.”
He took it. Five small rubies around a pearl. “From the ducal hoard?”
Her lips curled up in a miraculously mischievous smile. “It belonged to a Debenham lady reputed to be a lover of Rupert
of the Rhine. Of course, she failed to win her prince.”
He turned the ring in his fingers a moment, then took her left hand and slid it on. “I’m neither prince nor prize, Thea. You can do much better than me.”
“I’m sure I can, being a duke’s daughter with a handsome dowry. Don’t forget that dowry when you make your decision, sir. I believe your estates could use it.”
Unwillingly, he was smiling, too. “You are a terrifying woman.”
“Remember that, too. They say daughters turn out like their mothers.”
He sobered immediately. “What if sons turn out like their fathers?”
“Perhaps it wears off after two. I needed only a moment with your brother, Darien, to know the taint wasn’t inevitable.”
She stepped closer and kissed him, perfume rising between them with the heat.
He tossed the posy on the sofa and gathered her into his arms simply to hold her close. To his alarm, tears rose to his eyes and thickened his throat. He fought them back before relaxing his hold and brushing his lips against hers. He’d allow himself no more, not even when he saw the glisten in her eyes.
He stepped apart. “I wish you a safe and pleasant journey.”
Despite the moisture on her lashes, she was perfectly composed. “I gather you’re going to Stours Court soon.”
“As your father commanded.”
“Don’t if you don’t want to, but you probably should. You should probably tear it down, too, for its memories if no other reason.”
“How on earth do you know my mind?”
She chuckled. “No magic. Maria sent round a note.”
“Ah. The three Fates.”
She cocked her head. “What?”
“Never mind. If I tear down the house, and if—unlikely in the extreme—you become my wife, we’ll be homeless.” Dangerous but irresistible to speak of it.
“There’s a Lancashire property,” she said.
“Worse.”
“Ireland?”
“I have no idea yet, but it’s an unruly country, and I’m tired of war.”
“Then we simply purchase something new. Canem,” she suddenly added. “I’ve decided I should call you Canem, as all the friendly world does. Will you mind?”
He had to swallow again. “No.”
“It could be very pleasant,” she said, picking up the flowers and turning toward the door. “Choosing a house, I mean. Few people in our station get to choose exactly where to live. Our home could be close to Long Chart, or near Dare at Brideswell.” She was watching his reaction. “In hunting country, even. Anywhere you wanted.”
He took her hand because he couldn’t help himself. “If it happens, it will be where you want.”
“Very well, but you’d better make your wishes clear, because I’ll be choosing for you.”
She opened the door and they found the duchess there, supervising servants and luggage—but probably really hovering.
The duchess turned, assessed, and beamed. Then she said, “Darien, about your house…”
“Lord,” Thea muttered. “I forgot to warn you.”
The duchess swept over. “I gather you don’t intend to live there. Very wise, my dear boy….”
He’d become her dear boy?
“Could I persuade you to donate it to the cause? I have in mind a refuge for some of the most difficult cases among our wounded veterans, and some of our special cases among the orphans and unfortunate women. They could all live together, you see, assisting one another. It won’t be quite what the inhabitants of the square are used to, but it will be quiet. And I think they’d be happy to be rid of Cave reminders.”
She seemed anxious that he agree.
Darien laughed, took her hand, and kissed it. “You are my savior in all things, Your Grace. Consider it yours.”
“Theirs, Darien, dear. Theirs. So kind of you. Now, Thea, we really must be off.”
Thea was swept away to a waiting coach before Darien could come to terms with it. He left the house he had invaded months ago, fighting a new war, one against hope. Time, they said, healed all wounds. He knew that wasn’t true, but distance often changed the way things appeared.
In her beloved home, surrounded by the warmth and tranquil order she loved, Thea would come to see him for the dark presence who had caused her so much harm. He shouldn’t wish otherwise, but the weaker part of himself did.
He walked through the parks, remembering so many incidents. Here, he’d urged Thea to change, to be bolder, to brush away cobwebs. But our deeper natures were never so insubstantial, no matter how they looked to others. She had changed. Could he?
He knew he could control his violent side. He didn’t regret killing Foxstall, and he’d do it again, but with God’s blessing nothing like that would happen again.
Glenmorgan? That could have been handled better, and not even with a duel. There were times for violence and times for other ways. He’d learned that in the army, but he’d never had to apply it when someone offended the woman he adored, cherished, worshipped….
He watched three children running to the water where a pair of swans glided by.
Swans.
If a goddess could come to earth for him, he could make changes of the same dimension.
When parliamentary duties were done, Darien and Frank rode to Stours Court. They traveled at a gentle pace, for Frank wasn’t used to horses and he wanted to explore the countryside they passed. They didn’t far outpace the cart bringing their personal possessions.
The journey had been enlightening for Darien. He himself hadn’t spent much time in England, but he’d never had the wondering appreciation Frank showed.
“Of course I arrived in winter,” Darien said, sitting on a bench outside an inn in a small village, drinking summer ale on a lazy afternoon. Bees buzzed around a basket of flowers hung nearby and a pair of kittens chased each other near his feet. “Then the regiment was sent straight to the north, where the sun didn’t shine and the rain didn’t stop for weeks.”
“I mean to explore the whole country,” Frank said, scooping up a kitten that scratched his boots. “Rough and smooth.” The kitten purred. When Frank put it down, it mewled and attempted to follow when he left.
In due course they arrived at Stours Court, and though summer sun blessed the day, it worked no magic. If there were rough and smooth, this was part of the rough. Darien felt a familiar urge to turn away. Wytton, the new estate manager, had achieved a great deal, but he’d been instructed to concentrate on improving the land and essential building and not to waste time on the house, gardens, or anything impractical.
Wise decision. One glance with clear sight confirmed that the house should go.
“Strange,” Darien said, halting Cerb. “When I visited last time, I felt this place was a burden I could never shed, like Prometheus’s rock or the mariner’s albatross. Now it’s simply an ugly, decrepit house plagued by damp. I wonder if Father thought the same. The neglect isn’t new. The stables are this way.”
“I do remember,” Frank said. “I even came here now and then over the past decade.”
Darien had never imagined that he would. “Sure you don’t want to try to save it?”
“Lord, no. If it was wood, I’d suggest a bonfire, but that brown stone would just laugh at flames.”
“And any wood inside is probably too damp to burn well. Come on, then. I don’t suppose it will actually tumble down on our heads.”
Wytton had obviously considered the stables practical, for the roof had been fixed and the young grooms who came out to care for the horses looked healthy and cheerful.
In preparation for this visit, Darien had sent orders weeks ago to get rid of the tattered remnants of his father’s servants, but he’d provided parting money or pensions, even for the ones he remembered as cruel. Being a responsible custodian of the Cave inheritance was proving expensive. He’d ordered Wytton to find new staff, but had not been sure it would be possible. In the past, few had been wil
ling to work here.
In addition to the stable boys, however, he found a cook and scullery maid in the clean kitchen, who curtsied to him and Frank, looking perhaps cautious, but not afraid. There were two house maids, the cook told them, and they soon met them—sturdy young women bustling about making beds, sweeping floors, dusting and polishing. They, too, seemed wary, but they were here and willing to smile. Twenty-four hours of Frank would have them merry as larks.
But despite the improvements, the house was beyond hope. No amount of cleaning and polishing would remove the smell of rot, and only complete replacement of the roof would correct the many damp areas on the upstairs ceilings. What point in any repairs when the house stood on land so damp it was close to bog? Heaven alone knew why the site had been chosen in the first place.
“I’m reluctant even to sleep here,” Frank said, eyeing a distinct sag in the ceiling of the room prepared for him, “but the servants have made a gallant effort, so noblesse oblige.”
“It so often does.”
They obliged, therefore, settling into bedrooms, complimenting maids, eating dinner, complimenting the cook. At least there was no need to lie. The servants had done their best, but when the house went so would go their employment. It seemed poor reward, but Darien didn’t see a solution.
Wytton dined with them. He was a solid middle-aged man, hardworking but not one for small talk, so the meal was businesslike. Darien was amused by Frank’s eagerness to learn. He quizzed Wytton at such length that the man excused himself early.
“I think you’ve wrung him dry,” Darien said, smiling as he passed the port.
“It’s all fascinating stuff. Drainage. Who’d have thought that was so important?”
“I wish whoever planned this house had considered it.”
“Yes, indeed, but everywhere, apparently. And trees. I thought they were just for appearance, masts, or furniture. Coppices, pollarding.”
He went on like this at some length so that Darien rose and urged him away from the table, hoping to change the subject. But as they left the dining room, Frank said, “How would it be if I had a go at Greenshaw? Not permanently, I don’t think. But I’d like to try my hand at estate management.”
