Darling Beast (Maiden Lane) (17 page)

“I say,” the duke drawled, “am I interrupting?”

“No, but you’re barging in uninvited to my rooms,” Makepeace snapped.

“It’s so tedious,” Montgomery sighed, “to have to wait for invitations and, I find, they often don’t come when you
most want them to. Much easier to simply disregard formal invitations altogether. Good Lord, man,” he continued in the same bored tone, “haven’t you anywhere for guests to sit in this pigsty?”

“
Invited
guests are welcome to sit on the bed.” Makepeace pointed. “
Un
invited guests are welcome to—”

“What are you… doing here, Your Grace?” Apollo asked hastily before Makepeace could finish his sentence—perhaps disastrously.

Montgomery slowly pivoted to him. “You’ve regained the use of your voice, Lord Kilbourne.”

Apollo impatiently inclined his head.

“How very fascinating,” Montgomery said as if Apollo were an exotic animal he’d never seen before.

“You’ve not answered… my question.”

Montgomery spread his elegant hands wide. “I heard you were in trouble and naturally I came to help.”

“You wanted to… help me,” Apollo said, flat.

“You are, after all, the gardener with the grand scheme for my pleasure garden.” Montgomery cocked his head whimsically.

“
My
pleasure garden,” Makepeace interjected.

Montgomery cast him an amused glance, but addressed Apollo. “Helping you, I admit, helps me as well, but I see no problem with that.”

“No,
you
wouldn’t,” Apollo muttered.

“
How
did you know about Lord Kilbourne’s difficulties, may I inquire, Your Grace?” Trevillion asked quietly.

“Oh,” Montgomery murmured, bending to peer at the mechanical hen, “one hears these things.”

“Usually only if one has paid informants,” Trevillion said, very dry.

“They
do
help.” Montgomery straightened and smiled sweetly. “Now, if we’re done with the pleasantries, I suggest we discuss how we’re going to prove Lord Kilbourne’s innocence so he can get back to work on Harte’s Folly. I really must insist my garden be open for business by next spring, and this… hiccup… threatens to put the whole thing back
months
.” He made a moue of discontent. “I really shan’t have it.”

“
My
garden,” Makepeace muttered, but his heart was obviously no longer in it. He fetched the steaming teapot. “Right. Trevillion sit there”—he indicated his vacated chair—“
you
”—he pointed at the duke—“can sit on the bed or not at all. Now, who’s for tea?”

And a few minutes later they all had steaming—if mismatched—cups of tea in what had to be the oddest tea party Apollo had ever attended.

“Now then.” Makepeace slurped noisily at his teacup merely, Apollo suspected, to annoy the duke. He’d dumped half the contents of a rather fine gilded sugar bowl into his tea and it must have been like drinking treacle. “Let’s hear it. What’s your grand plan?”

Montgomery sniffed cautiously at his tea and took a very small, very delicate sip. Immediately his eyebrows shot up and he hastily set the teacup down on a pile of books. “Obviously we must find and expose the real murderer.”

“Obviously,” Makepeace drawled back.

The duke ignored that. “Am I to assume from Captain Trevillion’s presence that you’ve already made some inquiries?”

Apollo exchanged a glance with Trevillion and Apollo nodded.

“Yes, Your Grace, I have done some investigation into the matter.” The captain cleared his throat. “It seems Lord Kilbourne’s uncle, William Greaves, is in some debt to his grandfather’s, the earl’s, estate.”

Montgomery, who had been poking at his teacup, looked up at that. “Splendid! We have a viable candidate for a substitute murderer. Now to simply alert the authorities with a well-placed hint—”

“A hint about what, exactly?” Makepeace exploded. “We don’t have a scrap of real evidence that ’Pollo’s uncle did anything.”

“Oh, evidence is easily manufactured, I find,” the duke said carelessly as he dropped a marzipan orange into his tea. He watched it sink with interest.

There was a short, appalled silence.

The duke seemed to realize something was amiss. He glanced up, his blue eyes wide and innocent. “Problem?”

Fortunately it was Trevillion who replied. “I’m afraid we can’t simply manufacture evidence, Your Grace,” he said calmly but firmly. “We must discover the evidence naturally.”

“How tedious!” The duke actually pouted before assuming a rather alarmingly crafty expression. “It’ll take much less time my way, you comprehend.”

“Oh for God’s sake!” Makepeace burst out and for a moment Apollo was afraid he’d have to physically restrain him. “You’re discussing falsifying evidence to
hang
a man.”

“
Don’t
be a hypocrite, Mr. Harte,” the duke snapped. “You believe him just as guilty as I. You just want to salve your conscience by working for the evidence. The end result is the same, I assure you: an arrested man and Lord Kilbourne saved from Bedlam.”

“
Nevertheless
,” Trevillion said. He didn’t raise his voice, but such was its command, the other two men looked to him. “We’ll do it
our
way. Your Grace.”

For a moment the soldier and the aristocrat glared at each other.

Then the duke suddenly knocked over his teacup, spilling the mess on a stack of papers. “Oh, very well,” he said, petulant, over the squawks of Makepeace. Apparently the papers were broadsheets he’d been meaning to read. “I suppose there’s no help for it. We’ll have to go to William Greaves’s country house outside Bath and hunt around like farmers’ wives after chicken eggs.”

They all stared at him.

“What
now
?”

Trevillion cleared his throat, but Makepeace, perhaps because of his sodden broadsheets, beat him to it. “How do you propose we get into Greaves’s country house? Surely he’ll notice four men tramping through his rooms.”

“I doubt it,” Montgomery purred, “since he’ll be holding a country party in a little over a fortnight’s time with an especial play as the centerpiece of the event. Naturally, I have been invited. I’ll simply arrive with my very good friend, Mr.
Smith
”—he sent a significant glance at Apollo—“and there you are.”

“There we
won’t
be, because the first thing Greaves will do will be to have ’Pollo arrested,” Makepeace objected.

“Actually,” Apollo interjected thoughtfully, “I’ve never met… the man.”

Makepeace swung on him, looking betrayed. “What, never?”

Apollo shrugged. “Perhaps… as a baby? I certainly
have no… memory of him or the rest of his family. He probably’s never… seen me.” He looked over at Trevillion calmly sipping his tea. “Can Lady Phoebe find… a way to get an invitation to… the house party?”

“No,” the captain said with certainty. “Her brother does not want her to attend social events except those held by a family member. There are very few exceptions. However”—he looked considering—“I believe Wakefield has a house in Bath. It shouldn’t be too hard to suggest Lady Phoebe take the waters. And, since she enjoys the theater very much, she might be able to attend a private theatrical performance for one night. I shall look into the matter.”

Montgomery clapped his hands. “Then it’s settled. As I see it, there’s but one thing to do in the intervening two weeks.”

“And what is that?” Makepeace grated.

The duke turned his bright-blue eyes on Apollo, making him exceptionally nervous. “Why, outfit Lord Kilbourne as the aristocrat he is.”

Two weeks later Lily looked up at the gray stone facade of William Greaves’s country house and thought she should be excited.

It was the first opportunity in months and months for her to perform—and it would be in one of her own plays. By dint of nearly killing herself, she’d finished
A Wastrel Reform’d
on time and sent the manuscript by porter to Edwin, despite her misgivings. He’d already had a buyer, after all, and they both needed the money rather badly.

She hadn’t been terribly surprised when the Duke of Montgomery had introduced her to the other players and she’d found out she was performing in the play she’d
only just finished. William Greaves was the duke’s friend who’d commissioned
A Wastrel Reform’d
, and she had the lead as Cecily Wastrel. A plum breeches role—and she should know.

All in all a lovely turn of events. Usually she’d be happy and looking forward to both the party and the work.

Instead she felt a persistent melancholy. Caliban—
Lord Kilbourne
—had to all appearances escaped the soldiers, but she had no idea where he was. Indio had spent the week she’d been frantically writing moping about the garden, bemoaning his loss and driving her half mad. Even Maude, who should’ve been glad all her dire warnings about the man had proven correct, was silent on the subject. The afternoon after the soldiers finally left the garden, Lily had crept into the musician’s gallery and found his meager nest. He’d left a few clothes, an end of bread, and his notebook. This last she’d pocketed as some pathetic token—of what, she wasn’t exactly sure.

So it was with false cheer that she entered the Greaves House hallway. It was an older manse with narrow, dark rooms. She glanced around, already worried about where they could put on the play.

“Ah, our players,” Mr. William Greaves said rather pompously. He was a man in his sixties who’d probably been handsome as a youth. Now, however, he had a uniform dreary grayness about him, with a lined, sagging jawline and a puffiness around the eyes that bespoke too much drink or rich food. “I collect you must be Miss Goodfellow?”

She curtsied. “Your discernment is quite amazing, sir.” She swept wide her arm to indicate the other players
behind her. “May I introduce Mr. Stanford Hume.” An older, florid-faced actor bowed stiffly. Poor Stanford suffered from lumbago. “Miss Moll Bennet.” Moll curtsied low, drawing Mr. Greaves’s eye to her lush bosom. “And Mr. John Hampstead?” John grinned and swept a lavish bow. He was tall and thin and wasn’t particular as to the sex of his paramours.

They four were the principal players, though of course there were other actors to fill the remaining parts of the play.

“Welcome, welcome to Greaves House,” Mr. Greaves said expansively, and then rather ruined the effect by becoming practical. “I believe my butler has your rooms ready. I do hope you’ll be joining us for dinner. A most jolly company, I think. Ah, here’s my son and his wife arrived. You’ll excuse me?”

And they were left to the direction of the butler.

Who, naturally, looked faintly contemptuous. “Lake.” He snapped his fingers and one of the footmen came forward. “Show these persons to their rooms, please.”

“Ta, love,” John said cheekily to the butler.

And they tramped after Lake the footman.

“Well, at least they have us inside,” Moll said philosophically as they mounted the stairs. “Last house play I did would you believe they wanted us to bunk in the stables like gypsies? No, indeed, I said. Inside in a room at least as nice as the downstairs maids or back to London I go on the next stage. They grumbled, but I had my way in the end. That was
Richard II
in Cambridgeshire, d’you remember, Stanford?”

“I do indeed,” Stanford intoned in his plummy voice. “Most depressing production I’ve ever been in.”

“Don’t know what they were thinking,” agreed Moll. “A
history
play for a house party. Can you imagine?”

The footman, who, unlike the butler, seemed rather in awe of them, showed them to two rooms. After hearing Moll’s story about being housed in the stables, Lily was a bit afraid of what they’d be given. But other than being quite at the end of the hall, their rooms seemed to be nice.

“Better’n the stables anyway,” Moll said cheerfully as she poked her head in the wardrobe. “We’ll be sharing the bed, looks like”—she nodded at the canopied bed—“but I don’t snore, so it should be fine. Best tidy ourselves and go on downstairs. I’ve a feeling we’re the entertainment for the night.”

That was often the case, Lily reflected as they took turns at the washbasin and changed out of their dusty traveling clothes. The actors hired for a private performance were also considered professional guests by their host—there to enliven the party.

They were ready to appear in a little less than an hour. Moll was in dark brown and mauve, while Lily had on one of her favorite dresses, a scarlet affair with a deep, square neckline and white ruffles on the bodice and sleeves.

“Shall we?” Moll teased and they stepped out into the hall to find John and Stanford waiting.

“Ladies!” John swept them a ridiculously elaborate bow.

“Ass,” Stanford muttered, offering Moll his arm.

That left Lily to take John’s arm as they descended. She’d worked with both Moll and John before and was finding Stanford to be quietly witty beneath his role as the elder actor. In normal circumstances she’d be enjoying
herself immensely: a country house, a party, genial colleagues, and the prospect of a week’s worth of good food.

Tonight, though, she simply saw the party as something to endure.

On the first floor was a large salon and Lily glanced around it, mentally trying it on for size for their play. The lighting wasn’t very good—it was an interior room with only two windows at the far end—but the play would be at night anyway and with several dozen candles, it might well do.

She caught Stanford’s eye and when he winked, she knew he was thinking the same thing.

Then their host entered and with him the rest of the house party guests.

The first were Mr. and Mrs. George Greaves, their host’s son and his wife, though, since the older man was a widower, Lily suspected his daughter-in-law had had a hand in planning the party. She was a plain woman in her thirties, quiet, but with an intelligence in her eyes when they were introduced to her. Her husband, in contrast, had a carrying voice that would’ve done him well had he taken to the stage. George Greaves was a big, burly man and still had the good looks age had faded from his father.

Behind them was another, somewhat younger couple. Mr. and Mrs. Phillip Warner were still newlyweds and obviously in love. They made a striking couple, as both had beautiful butter-yellow hair, and Lily couldn’t help thinking they were destined to have a gorgeous brood of children.

Miss Hippolyta Royle was accompanied by her father, Sir George Royle, who had made his fortune in India and been knighted for his efforts. She was a dark beauty who obviously doted on her aging parent.

Besides Miss Royle, there were two other single ladies at the party: Mrs. Jellett, a society widow with a gossiping gleam in her eye, and Lady Herrick, the wealthy—and quite beautiful—widow of a baronet.

Lily was just thinking that the house party was weighted heavily in favor of the ladies when their host cried, “Ah, Your Grace, you’ve arrived!”

She turned to see the Duke of Montgomery, Malcolm MacLeish…

And Caliban.

Only he wasn’t Caliban. Not anymore. He was Viscount Kilbourne, his hair tied severely back, wearing a dusky-blue suit heavily embroidered in gold and crimson, and a cream waistcoat, and looking every inch the aristocrat.

L
ILY WORE A
crimson gown that exposed the upper slopes of her lovely breasts, white and inviting.

Apollo felt a bit as if he’d been hit square between the eyes.

“You did not tell me Miss Goodfellow would be here,” he hissed in Montgomery’s ear.

“Didn’t I?” replied the duke. “Why? Was the information of import to you?”

Oh, the other man knew well enough that the information that Lily would be attending this same house party had been “of import.” In the weeks he’d spent preparing for the house party, Apollo had endured quite a bit of time with the duke. He was frighteningly intelligent, mercurial, and selfish to the point of mania, and had the sort of impish sense of humor that found the predicaments of others funny. Rather like a little boy who enjoyed pitching
battles between beetles and worms. Except the duke was much, much more powerful than a little boy.

So it was hard to tell if the duke hadn’t told Apollo about Lily because he was amusing himself—or for some other more nefarious reason.

Not that Apollo gave a damn at the moment.

Over two weeks it’d been since he’d last seen her—two weeks in which he’d gone to bed every night wondering how she was and what she was doing, and waked with the image of her face behind his eyes.

Her lichen-green eyes had widened fractionally when she’d turned to see him, but she’d controlled herself all too soon, plastering on a bright social face that he was beginning to hate already.

His uncle, William Greaves, was making the introductions, but Apollo had eyes only for her.

She curtsied to him, murmuring huskily, “Mr. Smith,” as she did so, for they’d settled on the silly pseudonym for the party.

He couldn’t help himself. It’d been too long and he didn’t know how she felt about him anymore. If she hated him or even—God forbid—believed him to be a bloody murderer.

He caught her fingers and bent over them in a bow he’d learned as a boy and relearned again just in the past weeks. “Miss Goodfellow.”

One was supposed to kiss the air above a lady’s hand, but he brushed his lips over her knuckles, soft, but insistent. He wouldn’t let her forget what they’d had between them.

As he rose he caught the faint glimmer of irritation crossing her face and he was glad. Better he engender
vexation or even outright hatred than indifference. Then they were moving past each other and away as other guests were introduced.

“Wasn’t that interesting?” Montgomery chirped as he accepted a glass of wine from a footman.

“Someone’s going to murder you in your sleep one of these days,” Apollo returned, waving away the same footman. He wanted to keep a clear head for the coming evening.

“Oh, but only if they can get past my man-traps,” the duke said absently.

He was probably jesting, but it was entirely possible Montgomery slept with an array of traps scattered about his bedroom. The man was like an Oriental potentate.

“Why did you bring me?” Malcolm MacLeish asked, suddenly and irritably.

The Scotsman’s color was high and his pleasant face was twisted into a sulky scowl. For the first time Apollo realized that he might not be the only insect Montgomery was playing with tonight.

“Oh, I suppose to remind you of your obligations,” Montgomery replied carelessly. “And to have fun, of course.”

The question was, whose “fun” was he counting on? Apollo had an uneasy feeling it was the duke’s own.

He glanced away from his sponsor and over to William Greaves, the reason he was here in the first place. His uncle was an ordinary-looking man, a bit pompous, a bit weak about the mouth, but was he capable of ordering the senseless murder of three men merely to entrap his nephew? It didn’t seem possible, but if it hadn’t been he, then who?

Apollo could detect no hint of a family resemblance in his uncle, but his cousin, George, had been a revelation. Like Apollo, he was a big man, well over six feet, with broad shoulders and brown hair. His facial features were rather better formed than Apollo’s own, but there was enough similarity that it made seeing the man like catching his own reflection in a mirror out of the corner of his eye. It puzzled him at first, this sense of familiarity, until he realized what it was: they moved alike, he and his cousin.

Apollo frowned, thinking, only to be interrupted by Montgomery. “Try not to look too much like the tragic hero of a melodrama, if you please. We’re at a
party
.” And with that he sauntered over to Lady Herrick, who was not only quite a beauty but apparently wealthy as well.

Just Montgomery’s type, Apollo thought sourly. Poor woman.

“He collects people, you know,” the architect said. “Like a spider collects flies. Traps them, ties them up in silken threads, and keeps them until he has use of them.” MacLeish turned to Apollo, his blue eyes very cynical for one so young. “Has he collected you, too?”

“No.” Apollo was watching Lily again, as she threw back her head in laughter at something Mr. Phillip Warner had said. Her throat was long and white and he wanted, rather violently, to lick it until she stopped laughing at other men’s jests. “He may think he has me, but he’ll find he’s very much mistaken.”