Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (18 page)

"Hal!" Lucien went forward and took his friend's right hand in his own. His eyes went irresistibly to the empty sleeve tucked in between the buttons of his friend's jacket, and he felt a surge of rage at fate. And an awareness of frustrating impotence. This was something neither wealth nor rank could alter.

Hal read his face and shrugged. "There are worse things. The devil of it is, I won't be able to take my turn at bashing Boney." He in turn gave Lucien the once-over. "You look suitably rich and powerful, Luce."

Lucien took refuge in the familiar teasing about his high estate. "Noblesse oblige, old boy. Can't have the higher aristocracy groveling in the gutter."

"Assuredly not. Personally, I think you should wear strawberry leaves around your hat."

"I'm saving that for when I'm duke."

By then everyone else had gathered around, conversation became general, and Lucien had opportunity to try to come to terms with it all. He'd had friends who'd died in the war but none until now who'd been maimed. It was easy to forget the dead, or at least remember them as they had been, but Hal was a living reminder of suffering.

He looked at Amleigh and Debenham and wondered if this evidence of the consequences of war gave them pause. Or whether, as with him, it created a renewed desire to fight—to get revenge but also to assuage his guilt. Guilt he felt because he'd been here in England—getting drunk, dancing at Almack's, making love to Blanche—when that cannon had exploded, when the army surgeons had hacked off what remained of his friend's arm.

Even as he thought all this, he was smiling and adding the odd quip to the light-hearted conversation. They all knew there was no point in miserying over the matter, and Hal would hate it.

And, of course, the Marquess of Arden couldn't take the easy way out and go off to suffer and die. He had to marry and produce the next generation of great and noble de Vaux.

Which brought everything, as always, back to Elizabeth Armitage—whom he didn't trust but sometimes liked, and who, despite being so damned ordinary, was far too often in his mind.

Eleanor once more had the baby and was playing a silly game which seemed to involve talking nonsense and rubbing noses. It made sense to Arabel, at least, for she was smiling and making happy gurgles which sounded like a language of its own. A nursemaid was hovering ready to take the child away, but Eleanor was clearly in no hurry to part with her child.

Nicholas was being a good host and even taking part in the discussion, but half his mind was clearly on his wife and child, and probably always was. Lucien suspected Nicholas would rather be part of that strange gurgling conversation than discussing the amazing pig-faced woman with Dare. Lucien caught at least two shared glances between Nicholas and Eleanor which spoke of the joy they found in each other's presence, even hinted at more private, familiar, and anticipated delights.

He remembered he had once thought that Eleanor Delaney was the kind of wife he'd like as opposed to Phoebe Swinnamer who seemed to be the kind of wife he was expected to choose. All the candidates for Marchioness of Arden had seemed to be beautiful, well-bred fashion dolls with just brain enough to master polite conversation. Eleanor Delaney had a shrewd brain and a pleasantly natural manner.

Nicholas topped up Lucien's glass and followed his gaze to his wife. "She's still taken," he said lightly but added more seriously, "A newly betrothed man shouldn't be looking at another man's wife quite like that, you know."

It was an opening, deliberately given. Lucien wasn't ready to bare his heart, but he would appreciate any scraps of wisdom. "I was just wondering," he said lightly, "if you ever felt the urge to throttle her."

Nicholas quirked a brow. "Just because she left you holding the baby?"

"Not Eleanor. Elizabeth."

Nicholas looked puzzled for a minute but then smiled. "Ah, your Elizabeth. Want to throttle her, do you? I could suggest," he said with a grin, "that it is in lieu of other forms of intimate contact." He sobered. "But no, I never felt that urge. But then we hardly had a normal courtship and Eleanor is not one to stir the coals. And I," he added, smiling in self-mockery, "I have always prided myself on controlling everything, including my emotions."

Lucien wondered what lay behind the slightly bitter tone. "Whereas I," he responded to pass the moment off, "being a de Vaux, have never felt the slightest need for self-control in my whole life."

Nicholas laughed. "Hardly fair on yourself. So, what does your future marchioness do to stir the coals?"

Lucien found it difficult to express concisely the hundred ways Beth Armitage churned up his emotions, and so he fastened on the most obvious problem. "She's a follower of Mary Wollstonecraft."

Nicholas was raising his glass to his lips. It froze. A spark of incredulous humor lit his eyes, escaping in a full laugh. Wine splashed from the glass. "God Almighty!" he exclaimed when he'd got control of himself. "The whole story. Now."

Everyone else had turned to listen, and Lucien realized he'd gone too far. He shrugged and simply said, "Sorry."

Nicholas sobered and nodded. "Doubtless illegal," he said smoothly. "Can't have things like that with Stephen in the room." Again, he said, "We're here for a week."

Not having heard the first part of the conversation, the others were satisfied with this and conversation became general again. Nicholas made no attempt to pry, and though Lucien was aware of a few thoughtful looks from his host, there was no further reference to his personal life. He really didn't know if he wanted to have a heart-to-heart talk with Nicholas at all. There were too many secrets involved.

When Lucien left in the small hours of the morning it was with Hal. There was a light drizzle, but their greatcoats and beavers were adequate protection.

"Where're you staying?" Lucien asked.

"The Guard's."

"I could give you a bed at the palace for a couple of nights." They'd always referred to Belcraven House as "the palace." Lucien could remember wonderfully crazy games with Hal which seemed to involve charging along endless corridors and hurtling down flight after flight of stairs. The chance of coming across the duke or actually breaking some precious ornament had given the whole thing a delicious, and real, edge of danger.

Hal had found danger even more real since then.

"Just one bed?" teased Hal as they turned off Bentink Street onto Welbeck. "You're a bit close with your riches, ain't you?"

"As many as you want," said Lucien grandiosely and ran a gloved finger boyishly along a railing to disturb the beaded drops of rain. He felt like a schoolboy again. When they got home he'd maybe try sliding down the banister of the main staircase. "You can have your pick of at least ten, all well-equipped with the best down mattresses. You can push them side by side to give room to stretch. You can stack the mattresses in a pile until they're soft enough for your pampered skin."

"Like the princess and the pea?" queried Hal with a grin. "I'm far too plebeian for that. Could your blue blood detect a pea through ten mattresses?"

Lucien was snapped back to reality and maturity and all sorts of other unpleasant things. "Probably not," he said briefly. "But I rattle in the palace like one pea in a pod. Come and take up some space."

"Are you saying I'm a rattle, too?" Hal demanded lightly but with concerned and curious eyes. But he went on, "I'd like to. The Guard's is full of fogies. There's too many well-meant commiserations and altogether too much talk of war."

"Come along then. I'll send someone for your things."

They turned into Marlborough Square. When the Season began there would still be lit windows and traffic at this hour, but at this time of year it was quiet. Despite the flambeaux burning in front of each great house, the square was rendered eerie by the gray light and the misting rain. Lucien shuddered. "Come to think of it," he said, "why don't you come back to Belcraven and support me through the coming ordeal? My mother always had a soft spot for you."

"Won't I blight the celebrations?" Hal asked, the first sign he'd shown of awkwardness about his injury.

"Hardly. You'll be a hero."

"Heaven forbid." He looked sideways. "Why is it going to be an ordeal? Anything to do with whatever broke up Nick?"

Lucien wasn't ready to talk, not even to Hal. He made a business of finding the key to the big front doors. "Of course not," he said. He turned the well-oiled lock and let them both into the high, shadowed hall. A lighted lamp stood on a small table but, by his instruction, no member of staff waited in case he had need of some service. His and Hal's footsteps seemed to echo hollowly on the marble tiles.

He was not used to returning to a lifeless house. He'd never given such instructions before, and he suspected there were some bewildered hurt feelings below stairs. All Elizabeth Armitage's fault. Without saying a word she'd made him vividly aware of all the servants who were the constant fabric of his life.

He suddenly laughed. "Do you need anything else tonight other than a nightshirt, Hal? I've sent everyone to bed and it seems damned stupid to be knocking them up at this hour. Apart from the fact that I've no idea how to do it other than ringing the fire bell."

"Of course not. I've slept in my clothes in the mud more often than I care to remember. And, yes. I'd be happy to visit Belcraven again. You know your mother is my first and only love. Why don't you ask Con and Dare, too? They're merely waiting for orders."

Which was a very attractive idea, thought Lucien as they went upstairs. Something to do with safety in numbers.

Chapter 9

For her part, Beth found her days too full for philosophizing. She was set numerous tasks to do with the ball, given advanced etiquette lessons, and taken on drives and shopping expeditions. Three times they went to Oxford for silk stockings and satin slippers, artificial flowers and kid gloves. She had the feeling that much of the activity was designed expressly to keep her busy but, if so, she was grateful. Not only did it allow less time to think, it provided an opportunity to learn. Resigned to the fact that this was to be her life, she observed everything and learned quickly.

She even began to accept the constant presence of servants and not be awkwardly aware of their every action. But she could not make herself unaware of them as people.

When one day she came across a young boy crying in the garden, she stopped in concern. She remembered seeing the lad in the stables. Though he had a sharp face and a crooked nose, there was something appealing about his lively features and bright eyes, and she did not like to see him sad.

"What's the matter?" she asked gently.

He looked up, alarmed, then leapt to his feet. "Nothing, ma'am," he said, scrubbing at his damp face.

"Don't run away," Beth said. "You work in the stables, don't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Will you be in trouble for not being there?"

He hung his head. "No, ma'am. They won't expect me back quick after old Jarvis took a whip to me."

Beth could tell from the way he moved that his punishment had not been brutal, but she offered sympathy. "Oh dear," she said. "Did you do something very bad?"

He nodded, head still lowered. He couldn't be very old, Beth thought. Not much over ten. She sat on the ground close to him. "I'm Beth Armitage," she said. "What's your name?"

He looked down at her with a frown as if the question posed a problem. "I'm Robin," he said at last, slightly defiantly. "Robin Babson."

"Well, Robin. Why don't you sit here for a moment and tell me what's been going on. Perhaps we can prevent further punishment."

He sat down and grimaced. "Don't reckon," he said morosely. "Me and old Jarvis don't get on."

"What did you do this time?"

"Let go of an 'orse. Viking. The marquess's big stallion. He's done sommat to his leg."

"Oh dear," said Beth, dismayed. She knew the value Arden placed on that horse. "That does sound rather serious."

"When he comes back he'll kill me," said the boy with a gulp. "That or get rid o' me."

"The marquess?"

The boy nodded, fresh tears breaking out to streak his face.

Beth wished she could promise to intercede on the boy's behalf but didn't think she had sufficient influence in that quarter. Despite their truce, she was not at all sure any words of hers would outweigh damage to Arden's favorite mount.