Lady Beware (14 page)

Darien had discussed his plans with Foxstall a bit once. That might prove to be another mistake. “Yes.”

He could resort to force to get rid of Foxstall, but it hardly seemed worth it. Without women or drink, he'd soon leave.

“Noticed you weren't exactly welcomed yet,” Foxstall said with a touch of a sneer.

“Early days. I'm still testing the waters.”

“You can dip your toes in River Ton as often as you like—the ice'll never thaw.”

“I have the Debenhams in my grasp.”

Foxstall sniggered. “You certainly had the young one. Juicy piece, if not exactly on warm terms.”

Darien's jaw tensed, but he only said, “Spying on me, Matt?”

“Just seeking your company. You think you can make any headway there? Forlorn hope—unlike her jolly cousin.”

“Leave Miss Debenham alone.”

“Not under your orders anymore, and Miss Debenham doesn't want to be left alone, I assure you. I'd think she'd have a pretty dowry, wouldn't you? But her cousin's will be grander.”

Darien sent him a warning look, but instead of backing off, Foxstall laughed. “Thought so! Is it a dark and devious plan or are you smitten?”

The desire to commit murder burned, but this was a fuse better extinguished with cold water. “Plan, of course. She's hardly my type.”

“Tight-mouthed virgin,” Foxstall agreed.

“Enough.”
Darien put away the flute before he broke it.

This time Foxstall took the warning. “I wish you well of her, but it'll never happen. You resemble your brother too much.”

“Marcus?” Darien looked at Foxstall with true surprise. “I damn well don't.”

“That's what people were saying tonight. Thought I'd give you a friendly word of warning. Now, friend, lend me some money.”

Still digesting Foxstall's words, Darien said, “How much?”

“Three thousand.”

Darien stared at him. “Why?”

“Pugh took pneumonia and died. I can get the majority if I can find the money.”

When Darien had been selling out, Foxstall had hinted for a loan that would really have been a gift. At that time, Darien had assumed there'd be little money in the family's coffers, but he wouldn't have done it anyway. Fox in peacetime was a powder keg ready to explode. Now the regiment was off to India, where there'd be more action. But Darien trusted Foxstall even less, and this was Canem's Curs they were talking about.

“Sorry, can't do it.”

“Dammit, Canem, we've always shared and shared alike.”

“We shared the price of a jug of wine or a whore.”

“And this means about as much to you now. You're rolling in it!”

“Establishing oneself in society is expensive.”

“I see,” Foxstall said, and perhaps he did.

Darien tried to soften it. “Think of India. Nabobs, rubies, and harems.”

“I make a bad enemy, Canem.”

Darien met his eyes. “I make a worse one. Keep away from the Debenhams.”

“I'll do what I damn well please.” Foxstall slammed the door when he left.

Darien let out a breath. Matt Foxstall had never truly been a friend. He'd shared no secrets with him, sought no solace. They'd simply drank, whored, and fought. Above all fought, and with a wild brilliant fury that lingered finely in the mind. But everything was different now.

All the same, he didn't have so many friends that he shrugged at the loss of one.

He raised the flute and tried the merry jig again, but it had no effect on the dark. And the dark was his foul, pox-ridden brother. He damn well didn't resemble Marcus. They had the same coloring, certainly, but they were completely unalike. His last memory of Marcus was of a cankered, bloated brute.

But what had he been like before the pox ravaged him?

Marcus had been thirteen when Darien had been born and he'd been living a bawdy man's life before Darien had any memory of him. Marcus, thank God, had preferred to live in London because their father had let him run wild there, but he'd returned to Stours Court too often for anyone's comfort.

Darien surged to his feet and went to the mirror, bracing himself stiff-armed on the dressing table as he stared at his features, distorted by candlelight and the poor quality of the mirror. Perhaps the light and distortion revealed something.

Same dark hair growing up from the high forehead. Same dark eyes with heavy lids. Same slightly olive cast to the skin. Under Spanish sun, he'd turned as dark as the natives while others had burned.

Same cruelty?

No, but Darien recognized that the scars on his face suggested it, and perhaps something stamped there by the worst aspects of war.

Damn Marcus. But that was superfluous. If ever a man was in the lowest depths of hell, it was Marcus Aurelius Cave.

No wonder the ton shrank from this face. No wonder Thea Debenham shuddered at his touch. And Frank, Frank of the pure spirits and generous smile, he had the look, too. On him, dark hair and eyes gave the look of an angel, but would the supercilious, suspicious ton care?

He grabbed his scabbarded saber and smashed the pommel into the mirror, shattering the image.

Behind him, Pup mumbled, “Bad luck that, Canem. Seven yearsh of it….”

Darien whirled, weapon sliding from the sheath—but Pup was snoring again with the look of a dyspeptic cherub.

He rammed the blade back home and carefully put down the sword. He moved the candle to the floor and gathered the shards of glass. Once he was certain he'd found every glinting bit, he put them in a bowl for later disposal.

He looked at Pup, anger still simmering, at him, at Marcus, at the ton, at the whole bloody torture of fate. But what was the point? The past could not be undone, and some pasts would not be forgotten.

A scar remained a scar.

An amputated limb couldn't be regrown.

A moonling wouldn't become a man of sense.

And a Cave would forever be a vile outcast.

He took the colorful blanket from his bed and laid it over the snoring young man.

Canem's Pup—an object of fun, but Percival Arthur Uppington came from a family of modest but impeccable reputation and thus had a better chance of being accepted by the haut ton than any Cave ever would. A better chance, even, of winning the hand and heart of Lady Theodosia Debenham.

He froze. She was simply a means to an end.

He caught sight of his saber, which had so often run with blood. It was still sharp, still able to cleave a man's head in two with one blow. If a bit of bad news made him draw the blade, it had better be out of sight before the next installment arrived.

He buried it deep in his wooden chest and turned the key in the lock, trying to lock away memories and dreams as well.

D
arien woke with a start to a strange rumble, thinking
Ghost!
, but then realized it was only Pup snoring on his sofa. He lay back to allow his heart rate to settle, and remembered the details of the previous night.

The glorious harmonies of the choirboys.

The company of friends.

An angry goddess, a cunning Fox, and the cloaked disgust of people who saw Mad Marcus Cave back in their midst.

He was tempted to give up. None of that. He surged out of bed, dressed without assistance and without waking Pup, and then headed off for his morning ride. As he walked to the stables, tranquil morning air relaxed him and stirred hope. He'd made remarkable progress in only a few days, and tonight he would be guest of honor at a special dinner hosted by the duchess.

Morning was like that—fodder for hope. He rarely drank the night away because it stole morning.

All too many days had progressed to dirt, blood, and violence, however, and there was nothing so melancholy as dawn rising over a field of death, light touching men who would never again rouse from sleep.

He shook off such memories, but he knew this limpid morning would march steadily into a noisy afternoon and on to a hot, crowded evening in the poisoned thicket he'd chosen to hack through—

Gads, he'd be slitting his own throat soon.

He approached Cerberus's box, then paused to listen.

Someone was in there.

There had been some petty vandalism of his part of the stables, but if anyone had hurt Cerb…

He reached the box and looked in over the half door. A pale face turned to him, black patch over one eye. Then the mouth split into a gap-toothed smile.

“'Morning, Major,” the man said in a Welsh lilt. “Didn't expect you up so soon.”

Darien unlatched the door and went in. Cerberus turned its head in slight acknowledgment, but the horse was enjoying a thorough brushing too much to stir.

“What are you doing?” Darien asked Nid Crofter. The wiry, almost bald man had been one of the greatest rascals in Canem's Curs, but where it mattered, he'd been honest. Turned horse thief now?

Nid kept on brushing. “Visiting Cerberus, sir. For old time's sake, you might say.”

Darien leaned back against a post. “Thought you couldn't wait to get back to your village. In Brecknockshire, isn't it?”

“That's right, sir, and good of you to remember. I did go back there, sir, true enough, but things change, don't they?”

“Some things are damnably permanent. Not suited to country life?”

“No interest in working in a mine, Major.”

“It's Lord Darien now.”

“So I gather, Major. Very nice, I'm sure.”

“A pain in the arse, actually. Broke?”

Crofter shot him a glance. “Not as such, sir, no. But employment's hard to come by, and that's the truth.”

Darien considered, but only for a moment. Nid had always been good with horses. “There's not much work in it, but you can be my groom if you wish.”

Crofter grinned. “Very good, sir.”

“Then wake him up and get him saddled.”

Crofter bustled about, clearly having already explored the place.

“Sleep here last night?” Darien asked.

A sliding look. “Seemed someone should look after things. There's a decent space above.”

“Very well. You'll eat in the kitchen. My staff is minimal and taciturn, but perhaps they'll be friendlier to you. Given you only have Cerberus to take care of, help out in other ways if you're asked.”

Crofter slung the saddle onto Cerberus's back. “Very good, sir.”

“And if you filch anything, you're out on your ear.”

“I'd never touch a thread from your coat, sir! God's honest truth.”

Darien checked the horse himself, and then swung on. “Welcome to the Cave domain, Crofter. I hope you don't regret it.”

That big grin again. “I'm sure I won't, milord.”

Darien rode out, hoping that was true.

He turned toward Green Park, wondering if he was a benefactor or a gullible fool. He was perfectly aware that someone actually wanting to work for him, the prospect of a cheerful greeting every day, had been like bait. He was probably a fool, but war teaches a man to grasp whatever pleasures come to hand and they'd been thin lately.

When a man pushing a barrow of vegetables called, “A fine morning to you, sir!” Darien echoed it back.

Another person in London who didn't shrink from him. There were probably thousands, but not in the quarters where he chose to live.

No one was forcing him to bludgeon his way in where he wasn't welcome. Perhaps even Frank wasn't worth this. But it wasn't only Frank. He wanted a normal life for himself. He was Viscount Darien, and nothing short of death could change that. The title brought responsibilities from properties to duties, such as his seat in the House of Lords. One day soon he'd have to brave that lion pit. His nature didn't allow him to turn his back on his responsibilities.

As he rode along, he tried to imagine what a normal life might be.

A comfortable home for a start. Instead, he had Stours Court, Greenshaw, and a scrap of land in Ireland. And Cave House, God help him. If he didn't live in it, who would?

A jangling bell alerted him to a milkmaid leading her cow and goat down Park Lane, crying her wares. On impulse, he halted and requested some milk. The sturdy woman—wife, not maid, he was sure—worked the cow's udders to fill a frothing bowl and gave it to him. He drank the rich, warm, sweet liquid. Was it delicious because it reminded a person of mother's milk?

If so, it wasn't his own mother's. She'd never fed any of her children. They'd all been given into the care of a local family with a child of a similar age until old enough to wean.

In a fairy story, he would have a devoted foster brother who'd shared the milk, but he'd suckled the milk intended for a stillborn Lagman child. He had some faint memories of kindness there, but they could be wishful dreams. They'd certainly never tried to protect him from his family.

On his recent visit to Stours Court, widowed Mrs. Lagman had fussed over him in the village. She was over sixty now and weathered by time and living under the Caves, but her smile had been broad. He'd put it down to looking for favor from the new lord, but had he misjudged her? After all, the whole family would have been evicted if they'd tried to protect him. Or worse could have happened, given Marcus's temper. Most people avoided being heroes, and it was damn wise of them.

He returned the bowl and paid the woman twice her price, then rode on. Did anyone have good memories of childhood?

Dare Debenham, probably, damn him.

Van, too. He'd run wild in the countryside with his two friends—now Hawkinville and Amleigh—always certain of a friendly face. Apart from one gamekeeper, Darien remembered with a smile, whose life the three boys had made hell. Van's reminiscences had been both pleasure and pain.

Darien had run wild in the countryside, too, but in order to escape the house. Indifferent servants had made escape easy, so he'd ridden out early every day to fish the streams and snare rabbits for food. He'd often climbed the steep hill to the crumbling ruins of Stour Castle, where he'd imagine himself the great Lord Rolo Stour, defending the keep against the enemy.

Lord Rolo's enemies had been the Empress Matilda's forces in the twelfth century, but Horatio Cave's had always been the imagined images of his father, Marcus, and Christian.

He'd desperately wished he were a descendant of Lord Rolo, but the Stours had died out long ago after picking the wrong side too often in royal squabbles. In the sixteenth century the estate had been given to a royal clerk called Roger Cave, doubtless for sneaking around or keeping dirty secrets.

As soon as Frank had been old enough, he'd taken him along on his adventures. It had been to remove him from the dangers of the house, but he'd proved useful.

One of the gatekeepers' wives had been childless, and Mrs. Corley, round-faced and kindly, would have adopted angelic Frank if she could. She fed him fresh bread and jam and poured him mugs of creamy milk.

Horatio Cave had never had Frank's beauty or charm, but Mrs. Corley would let no child go uncherished, so he'd received the same nourishing food, the same smiles, and even, sometimes, the same bosomy hugs. He'd probably stiffened like a wild thing when she did that, for mostly he remembered a gentle hand on his shoulder or head.

He did remember, however, her praise. Praise was scarce as hen's teeth in Stours Court, but Mrs. Corley would look at him with her bright eyes and tell him how good and brave he was to look after his brother. Of course he'd told her about Lord Rolo, and she would tell him he was just like that hero and would grow up to be a great man.

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?”