Lady Beware (7 page)

“No,” Thea said. After all, she was supposed to be
betrothed
to the man. How had she ended up in this fix?

“You have such an excellent reputation for virtue and good sense that it will convince people immediately. Now, when?” The duchess opened her appointment book. “Almack's tonight. No hope of getting Darien in there yet.”

Yet?
Thea wanted to laugh.

“Lady Wraybourne's musicale on Thursday. Very select. That could be difficult….”

“And you intend to wait for Mr. Thoresby's report, Mama,” Thea reminded her.

“I'm sure he'll have something by then. We need to act speedily to turn the tide. Once people get fixed ideas they become difficult. Only minor commitments on Friday.” She made a firm note.

Thea didn't protest anymore. That gave her three days before she need meet the man again. Unless he brashly invaded, demanding his bride.

She should try to meet him sooner and explain all the reasons why the betrothal was unnecessary, but she could no more seek him out than she would seek out the plague.

B
y noon, Darien had settled to the never-ending paperwork, secure that Lady Theodosia hadn't complained of his behavior. At least there would be no challenge. She was probably running in circles, however, trying to find a way out of her promise.

He smiled at that.
Oh, no, my lady. You are mine.

Wicked to enjoy the thought, but if so, ledgers and accounts were his penance. This wasn't work he'd been trained for, but he believed in understanding things for which he was responsible. The hollow rap of the door knocker brought him out of a particularly bewildering column of numbers.

Had he relaxed too soon?

He listened to Prussock's heavy footsteps trudging toward the front door, faint voices, and then footsteps coming his way. A knock.

“Enter.”

Prussock did so. “A gentleman to see you, milord,” he said, disgruntled. Clearly visitors were an imposition.

Darien rose, pulling himself into readiness. “Who?”

“A Lord Vandeimen, milord.”

The wash of relief blanked his mind for a moment, but then the novelty of the situation struck. Van would be his first guest. Where should he receive him?

The reception room and drawing room were still under Holland covers, as was the sitting room that was part of his father's suite. He'd refused to use those rooms. He'd also rejected the large bedroom that had been Marcus's, even though every trace of the past had been removed.

As a result he was using the third bedroom. It was modest in size and he'd done nothing to fancy it up. Before he could decide, Van appeared in the doorway, lean, blond, and with the long scar down his cheek. “Thinking how to have me thrown out?” he asked, with a smile but not entirely in jest.

Darien laughed and went forward to shake his hand. “Only where to put you. I'm virtually camping out here, but I have supplies. Ale, wine, tea, coffee?”

“Coffee, thank you,” Van said, looking around the office.

Darien sent the curious Prussock off with the order.

“I know—Spartan. When my father died, the executor removed all the viscountcy's papers that were here. I haven't bothered to get most of them back. There were some books, but those that weren't out-of-date almanacs and such were thoroughly depraved. I had the Prussocks burn the lot.”

“What're the odds they sold them for a tidy price?”

Darien grinned. “A dead certainty. It's good to see you, Van.”

Van smiled, but said, “Then I could ask why I haven't seen you sooner. Until I heard you were at the Yeovil ball last night, I didn't know you were in Town.”

“Settling in,” Darien offered as a vague excuse. “Shall we attempt the drawing room? There is one, but it's still under wraps.”

“Then why disturb the shrouds?” Van took one of the saggy-seat chairs by the empty fireplace. “How are you?”

Darien took the other chair, beginning to be wary. Van would be here out of friendship, no question, but he could still be on business connected to last night. Van had his own connection to the Rogues.

“Well enough, all things considered,” he answered. “And you? Marriage suiting you? And fatherhood?” Darien had been astonished last year to hear that Van had married a wealthy, and older, widow. Widow of a merchant, no less. But he'd inherited estates in even worse state than his own.

“Excellently,” Van said. “I recommend both.”

Before Darien could continue with such distractions, Van asked, “Did you deliberately avoid me last night?”

“Direct and to the point as always. Of course I did. I was the leper at the feast and I'd no mind to contaminate you.”

“I never thought you quixotic. But if you were a leper, you're cured. You're the Duchess of Yeovil's darling. Except that you didn't linger to be crowned with glory.”

“Put her nose out of joint, have I?”

Van's brows twitched. “Only puzzled her. Why?”

“I don't care to be blubbered over.”

“What precisely is going on?”

Darien was tempted to tell Van everything, but only for a moment. He truly didn't want any friend tangled in this, and there might be aspects that he didn't want Van to know about at all.

“For my sins, I'm Viscount Darien. When the regiment ended up back in England and enforcing the Riot Act on a bunch of desperate Lancashire weavers, I realized I was serving no useful purpose in the army. I hoped to be more useful by managing my estates, sorting out the finances, and deciding what to do with it all. Including this damned place.”

“It's seems a perfectly normal house.”

“The hell it is. It's Mad Marcus Cave's lair.”

“Good Lord, I suppose it is. Sell it?”

“It's been available for sale or lease for over a year.”

“Not part of the entail, then?”

“There is none.”

Prussock came in, carrying a tray bearing a tall china coffeepot and other necessities. There was even a plate of biscuits of some sort. Interesting, as Darien had never seen a biscuit here before. He wasn't particularly fond of sweet foods so he hadn't missed them.

He should probably scrutinize Mrs. Prussock's expenditures, especially on the servants' food, but that seemed low on the list. If they required some indulgences to stay on here, that would be cheap at the price.

When coffee was served and Prussock left, Van said, “So there was actually something of value to inherit. You did better than I there.”

Darien relaxed into safe subjects. Van might even have useful experience of property law and management. “Astonishing, isn't it? Some of the more valuable items have been sold over the years, but the three estates are intact with only small mortgages. They've been poorly managed, but they bring in a quarterly income that exceeds the essential outgoings, which is more than I expected. Your family's estates were in terrible shape?”

Van smiled wryly. “Drowning in debt. I solved my problems by marrying money. You might want to consider it.”

Darien laughed. “What heiress would marry a Cave? I'd find it hard enough to find a healthy, sane female of any kind.”

“That's nonsense….” But then Van seemed to accept the truth. “Then last night was fortunate. With the Debenhams' patronage you'll soon be in better shape. Fighting off the ambitious young ladies, in fact. With a title, you'll be like a ten-pointer in stag-hunting season.”

Darien laughed. “Is that supposed to encourage me?” He saw another chance to deflect the conversation. “Done any hunting since you got back?”

“Spent a few weeks in Melton over the winter. It's become a world all of its own.”

They talked a while about the mecca of fox hunting, making vague plans for the next season. Then Van took another biscuit and asked, “Why did you speak up on Dare's behalf last night?”

Darien recognized that they'd arrived at the subject that had brought Van here, but why?

“Is it so surprising?” he countered.

“Had the impression you hated his guts. In Brussels you avoided him whenever you could.”

Darien had hoped he'd hidden his feelings better back then. “We didn't get along at school, and I wanted to avoid discord. With the battle coming.”

“We were all trying to be cheerful, weren't we? Sucking life's pleasures while we could. Dare was good at that. What
did
lie between you?”

“Old story.”

Van's look was searching, but he didn't insist. “Generous of you to go out of your way to help him, then. It did help. He's off now to stop opium for good, and the fewer burdens he carries the better.”

Darien wanted to say something sour, but he'd known other men left with that demon on their backs after lengthy pain. “I hope he wins.”

Van nodded. “You have a fight on your hands, too. You want to be accepted in London society?”

“Don't I deserve to be?”

“Of course.” But Van's expression didn't deny the challenge. “How can we help?”

“We?” Darien asked.

“Maria and I. You must come over soon. She's keen to meet you.”

Darien doubted that. “Not yet. I appreciate it, truly, but I have few enough friends. I'll not embarrass them.”

“Instead, you'll insult them? God knows what our social commitments are—women's work—but come to dinner next Wednesday. In the meantime, we'll support you at any public event.”

“Your wife—”

“Will agree.”

“Have her so firmly under your thumb, do you?”

Van laughed. “You have no idea how absurd that is. She's already agreed to do anything she can. Suggested it, in fact.”

“Perhaps she doesn't understand. She's a merchant's widow, isn't she? A foreign merchant.”

Van laughed again, throwing his head back. “You really have no idea, do you? Maria, my lad, was born a Dunpott-Ffyfe. That may mean nothing to you, but the very top of the trees, I assure you. She's cousin to the Duchess of Yeovil and linked on the family tree to just about anyone else of importance, including, I gather, the royalty of at least four countries. She's over at Yeovil House now, weaving plans.”

Darien went cold. Van's wife was cousin to Lady Theodosia Debenham's mother? And they were all three in the middle of a web of almost limitless social power? The discovery was like charging down on a vulnerable troop of soldiers and having the entire enemy army come over the crest of a hill.

“I've assured Maria that you're a sound 'un, top to toe,” Van said.

Darien put down his cup. “You sound as if you have doubts.”

Van's eyes were steady. “No, but you're up to something.”

“I merely wish to be accepted in society as a reasonably normal human being.”

“Then there should be no difficulty. Leave it to the women. That's my advice.” Van rose. “I have an appointment, but Maria will come up with the right invitations for you to accept. Routs and such, I suspect. They're just a matter of entering the house, greeting a few people, and leaving. You'll have cards for those.”

“I do. I'm surprised to receive invitations of any kind.”

Van waved a hand. “There are all kinds of arcane rules, but all peers of the realm are invited to any gathering that can't claim to be select. Then there's the theater and perhaps some exhibitions. Being seen with Maria will carry weight.”

“It's very kind of you,” Darien said, trying to decide if he should accept this sort of help.

“Do you still box?” Van asked.

“Why? Itching to fight me?”

“Always,” Van said with a smile. “But it's an activity where you'll mingle with some of the men. Friday afternoon? We could go to Jackson's.”

“I'd like that.”

Van grasped Darien's arm briefly. “It's good to be back together, Canem. And this time with death unlikely in the near future.”

Darien showed Van out, hoping that was true.

He was warmed by friendship but concerned about the new alignment of the chessboard. Three queens in play, and they could be three Fates, deciding if he would live or die.

A moment's consideration told him that he could no more affect that than he could affect the Fates, so he returned to the office and the incomprehensible ledgers. He'd not completed the comparison of two pages before there was another knock.

What now?

Something normal this time—Prussock brought the afternoon post. Darien scanned the three letters, hoping one was from Frank. No. One from his solicitor, another from his new agent at his Warwickshire estate, Stours Court, and a third with no indication of the sender.

He snapped the seal and unfolded the paper to reveal an enclosure—a printed sheet of some sort. When he unfolded that, he found a cheap print of a satirical cartoon, the sort of thing displayed row on row in any printer's shop. He knew this one, however. He'd received another copy, also anonymously, in France within a week of the deaths of his father and brother last year.

In neat engraving, two rotund men sprawled upon a hillside with the mouth of hell open below them. Imps had hold of their booted feet to drag them down to where flames, Lucifer, and a bloated monster of a man awaited.

In case anyone missed the points, the monster was labeled “Mad Marcus Cave” and the two men were labeled “The Unholy Christian Cave” and “Vile Viscount Darien.” From thunderclouds above, God hurled a thunderbolt from each hand, with the captioned word, large and bold,
“Cave!”

At the bottom, the picture was titled
The Wrath of God.

“Well,” he muttered to the sender, “and damn you to hell, too.”

The cartoon was accurate in the essentials. His father, the sixth Viscount Darien, and his other older brother, the very unholy Christian Cave, had been found dead on moors near Stours Court. They'd been out shooting and were killed during a thunderstorm.