Darling Beast (Maiden Lane) (2 page)

Lily couldn’t help it. She made a noise that was perilously close to a squeak.

The thing whirled—much faster than anything that big had a right to move—and a horrible, soot-stained face glared at her, one paw raised as if to strike her.

In it was a wickedly sharp, hooked knife.

Lily gulped. If she lived through the day she was going to have to apologize to Indio.

For there
was
a monster in the garden.

T
HE DAY HADN
’
T
been going well to begin with, reflected Apollo Greaves, Viscount Kilbourne.

At a rough estimate, fully half the woody plantings in the pleasure garden were dead—and another quarter might as well be. The ornamental pond’s freshwater source had been blocked by the fire’s debris and now it sat stagnant. The gardeners Asa had hired for him were an unskilled lot. To top it off, the spring rains had turned what remained of Harte’s Folly into a muddy morass, making planting and earth moving impossible until the ground dried out.

And now there was a strange female in his garden.

Apollo stared into huge lichen-green eyes lined with lashes so dark and thick that they looked like smudged soot. The woman—girl? She wasn’t that tall, but a swift glance at her bodice assured him she was
quite
mature, thank you—was only a slim bit of a thing, dressed foolishly in a green velvet gown, richly over-embroidered in red and gold. She hadn’t even a bonnet on. Her dark hair slipped from a messy knot at the back of her neck, waving strands blowing against her pinkened cheeks. Actually, she was rather pretty in a gamine sort of way.

But that was beside the point.

Where in hell had she come from? As far as he knew, the only other people in the ruined pleasure garden were the brace of so-called gardeners presently working on the hedges behind the pond. He’d been taking out his frustration alone on the dead tree stump, trying to uproot the thing by hand since their only dray horse was at work with the other men, when he’d heard a feminine voice calling and she’d suddenly appeared.

The woman blinked and her gaze darted to his upraised arm.

Apollo’s own eyes followed and he winced. He’d
instinctively raised his hand as he turned to her, and the pruning knife he held might be construed as threatening.

Hastily he lowered his arm. Which left him standing in his mud-stained shirt and waistcoat, sweaty and stinking, and feeling like a dumb ox next to her delicate femininity.

But apparently his action reassured her. She drew herself up—not that it made much difference to her height. “Who are you?”

Well, he’d like to ask the same of her but, alas, he really couldn’t, thanks to that last beating in Bedlam.

Belatedly he remembered that he was supposed to be a simple laborer. He tugged at a forelock and dropped his gaze—to elegantly embroidered slippers caked in mud.

Who
was
this woman?

“Tell me now,” she said rather imperiously, considering she was standing in three inches of mud. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

He glanced at her face—eyebrows arched, a plush rose lower lip caught between her teeth—and cast his eyes down again. He tapped his throat and shook his head. If she didn’t get
that
message she was a lot stupider than she looked.

“Oh,” he heard as he stared at her shoes. “Oh, I didn’t realize.” She had a husky voice, which gentled when he lowered his gaze. “Well, it doesn’t matter. You can’t stay here, you must understand.”

Unseen, he rolled his eyes. What was she on about? He worked in the garden—surely she could see that. Who was she to order him out?

“
You.
” She drew the word out, enunciating it clearly, as if she thought him hard of hearing. Some thought that since he couldn’t speak he couldn’t hear, either. He caught
himself beginning to scowl and smoothed out his features. “Cannot. Stay.
Here.
” A pause, and then, muttered, “Oh, for goodness’ sakes. I can’t even tell if he understands. I cannot believe Mr. Harte allowed…”

And it dawned on Apollo with a feeling of amused horror that his frustrating day had descended into the frankly ludicrous. This ridiculously clad woman thought
him
a lackwit.

One embroidered toe tapped in the mud. “Look at me, please.”

He raised his gaze slowly, careful to keep his face blank.

Her brows had drawn together over those big eyes, in an expression that no doubt she thought stern, but that was, in reality, rather adorable. Like a small girl chiding a kitten. A streak of anger surged through him. She shouldn’t be out by herself in the ruined garden. If he’d been another type of man—a brutal man, like the ones who’d run Bedlam—her dignity, perhaps even her
life
, might’ve been in danger. Didn’t she have a husband, a brother, a father to keep her safe? Who was letting this slip of a woman wander into danger by herself?

He realized that her expression had gentled at his continued silence.

“You can’t tell me, can you?” she asked softly.

He’d met pity in others since the loss of his voice. Usually it made him burn hot with rage and a sort of terrible despair—after nine months he wasn’t sure he’d ever regain the use of his voice. But her inquiry didn’t provoke his usual anger. Maybe it was her feminine charm—it’d been a while since any woman besides his sister had attempted to talk to him—or maybe it was simply
her
.
This woman spoke with compassion, not contempt, and that made all the difference.

He shook his head, watching her, keeping his face dull and unresponsive.

She sighed and hugged herself, looking around. “What am I to do?” she muttered. “I can’t leave Indio out here by himself.”

Apollo struggled not to let surprise show on his face. Who or what was Indio?

“Go!” she said forcefully, suddenly enough that he blinked. She pointed a commanding finger behind him.

Apollo fought back a grin. She wasn’t giving up, was she? He slowly turned, looking in the direction she indicated, and then swiveled back even more slowly, letting his mouth hang half open.

“Oh!” Her little hands balled into fists as she cast her eyes heavenward. “This is maddening.”

She took two swift steps forward and placed her palms against his chest, pushing.

He allowed himself to sway an inch backward with her thrust before righting himself. She stilled, staring up at him. The top of her head barely came to his mid-chest. He could feel the brush of her breath on his lips. The warmth of her hands seemed to burn through the rough fabric of his waistcoat. This close her green eyes were enormous, and he could see shards of gold surrounding her pupils.

Her lips parted and his gaze dropped to her mouth.

“Mama!”

The hissed word made them both start.

Apollo swung around. A small boy was poised on the muddy path just outside the thicket. He had shoulder-length curly dark hair and wore a red coat and a fierce
expression. Beside him was the silliest-looking dog Apollo had ever seen: a delicate little red greyhound, both ears flopped to the left, head erect on a narrow neck, pink tongue peeping from one side of its mouth. The dog’s entire demeanor could be labeled
startled
.

The dog froze at Apollo’s movement, then spun and raced off down the path.

The boy’s face crumpled at the desertion before he squared his little shoulders and glared at Apollo. “You get away from her!”

At last: her defender—although Apollo
had
been hoping for someone a bit more imposing.

“Indio.” The woman stepped away from Apollo hastily, brushing her skirts. “There you are. I’ve been calling for you.”

“I’m sorry, Mama.” Apollo noticed the child didn’t take his eyes from him—an attitude he approved of. “Daff an’ me were ’sploring.”

“Well, explore nearer the theater next time. I don’t want you meeting anyone who might be…” She trailed away, glancing nervously at Apollo. “Erm. Dangerous.”

Apollo widened his eyes, trying to look harmless—sadly, nearly impossible. He’d hit six feet at age fifteen and topped that by several inches in the fourteen years since. Add to that the width of his shoulders, his massive hands, and a face that his sister had once affectionately compared to a gargoyle’s, and trying to appear harmless became something of a lost cause.

His apprehension was borne out when the woman backed farther away from him and caught her young son’s hand. “Come. Let’s go find where Daffodil has run off to.”

“But, Mama,” the boy whispered loudly. “What about the monster?”

It didn’t take a genius to understand that the child was referring to him. Apollo nearly sighed.

“Don’t you worry,” the woman said firmly. “I’m going to talk to Mr. Harte as soon as I can about your monster. He’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

With a last nervous glance at him, she turned and led the boy away.

Apollo narrowed his eyes on her retreating back, slim and confident. Green Eyes was going to be in for a shock when she found out
which
of the two of them was tossed from the garden.

For a man who owned a pleasure garden, Asa Makepeace certainly didn’t live in luxury—if anything, he sailed perilously close to squalor.

Apollo finished climbing the three flights of rickety stairs to Makepeace’s rented rooms the next morning. Makepeace lived in Southwark, which was on the south bank of the River Thames, not terribly far from Harte’s Folly itself. The landing held two doors, one to the right, one to the left.

Apollo pounded on the right-hand door, then paused and placed his ear to it. He heard a faint rustling and then a groan. He reared back and thumped the wood again.

“D’you mind?” The left door popped open to reveal a
shriveled elderly man, a soft red velvet cap on his head. “Some like to sleep of a morning!”

Apollo turned his shoulder, shielding his face behind his broad-brimmed hat, and waved an apologetic hand at the man.

The old man slammed his door shut just as Makepeace opened his own.

“What?” Makepeace stood in his doorway, swaying slightly as if in a breeze. “What?” His tawny hair stood out all around his head like a lion’s mane—assuming the lion had been in a recent cyclone—and his shirt was unbuttoned, baring a heavily furred barrel chest.

At least he was wearing breeches.

Apollo pushed past his friend into the room—although not far. There simply wasn’t much space to move. The room was swarming, teeming,
breeding
with things: towers of stacked books stood on the floor, a table, and even the big four-poster bed in the corner, a life-size portrait of a bearded man leaned against one wall, next to a stuffed raven, which stood next to a teetering pile of chipped, dirty dishes, and next to
that
was a four-foot-tall model of a ship, rigging and all. Colorful costumes were piled haphazardly in one corner and papers were scattered messily on top of nearly everything.

Makepeace shut his door and a few sheets fluttered to the floor. “What time is it?”

Apollo pointed to a large pink china clock sitting on top of a stack of books on the table before looking closer and realizing the timepiece had stopped. Oh, for God’s sake. He chose a more direct way to show the time by dodging around the table, crossing to the only window, and yanking the heavy velvet curtains open.

A cloud of dust burst from the fabric, dancing prettily in the early morning sunlight streaming into the room.

“Ahhh!” Makepeace reacted as if skewered. He staggered and flung himself back on the bed. “Have you no mercy? It can’t be noon yet.”

Apollo sighed and crossed to his friend. He pushed one leg over ungently and perched on the side of the bed. Then he took out his ever-present notebook and a pencil stub.

He wrote,
Who is the woman in the garden?
and shoved the notebook in front of Makepeace’s eyes.

Makepeace went cross-eyed for a second before focusing on the writing. “What woman? You’re mad, man, there isn’t any woman in any garden unless you’re talking about Eve and
that
garden, which would make you Adam and that I’d
pay
to see, especially if you wore a girdle of oak leaves—”

During this ramble Apollo had taken back the notebook and written more. Now he showed it to the other man, cutting him off mid-rant:
Green eyes, overdressed, pretty. Has a little boy named Indio.

“Oh,
that
woman,” Makepeace said without any show of embarrassment. “Lily Stump. Best comic actress in this generation—perhaps any generation, come to think of it. She’s impossibly good—it’s almost as if she casts a spell over the audience, well certainly the
male
members. Uses the name Robin Goodfellow on the stage. Wonderful thing, made-up names. Quite useful.”

Apollo gave him a jaundiced look at that. Asa Makepeace was more commonly known as Mr. Harte—though very few knew both of the man’s names. Makepeace had taken the false name when he’d first opened Harte’s Folly nearly ten years ago. Something to do with his family
being a religious lot and disapproving of the stage and pleasure gardens in general. Makepeace had been vague about it the one time Apollo had quizzed him on the subject.

Apollo scribbled in the notebook again.
Get her out of my garden.

Makepeace’s eyebrows shot up when he read the note. “You know, it’s actually
my
garden—”

Apollo glared.

Makepeace hastily held up his hands. “Although, of course, you have a significant investment in it.”

Apollo snorted at that. Damned right a
significant investment
—to wit: all the capital he’d been able to scrape together four and a half years ago. And since he’d spent most of the intervening time ensconced in Bedlam, he hadn’t been able to acquire any other capital or income. His investment in Harte’s Folly was it—his only nest egg and the reason he couldn’t simply flee London. Until Harte’s Folly was once again on its feet and earning, Apollo had no way of getting his money back.

Hence his decision to help by overseeing the landscaping of the ruined garden.

Makepeace let his hands drop and sighed. “But I can’t make Miss Stump leave the garden.”

Apollo didn’t bother writing this time. He just arched an incredulous eyebrow and cocked his head.

“She hasn’t anywhere else to stay.” Makepeace rolled off the bed, suddenly alert.

Apollo waited patiently. One good thing about being mute: silence had a tendency to make others talk.

Makepeace sniffed his underarm, grimaced, and then pulled off his shirt before he broke. “I might’ve stolen
her away from Sherwood at the King’s Theatre, which for some reason Sherwood took personally, the ass. He’s made it impossible for her to get work anywhere in London. So when she came to me last week unable to pay the rent on her rooms…”

He shrugged and tossed the dirty shirt in a corner.

Apollo’s eyebrows snapped together and he wrote furiously.
I can’t keep in hiding with strangers running about the garden.

Makepeace scoffed. “What about the gardeners we’ve hired? You haven’t made a fuss about them.”

Can’t help them—we need the gardeners. Besides. None of them are as intelligent as Mrs. Stump.

“
Miss
Stump—there’s no Mr. Stump, as far as I know.”

Apollo blinked, sidetracked, and cocked his head.
The boy?

“Her son.” Makepeace reached for a miraculously full jug of water, which he poured into a chipped basin. “You know how theater folk are sometimes. Don’t be such a Puritan.”

So she wasn’t taken by another man.
Not
that it mattered—she thought him a literal idiot and he was in hiding from the King’s men after escaping Bedlam.

Apollo sighed and wrote,
You need to find her other lodging.

Makepeace cocked his head to read the outthrust note, and dropped his mouth open like a gaffed carp. “Good God, what a wonderful idea, Kilbourne! I’ll just send her to my ancient family castle in Wales, shall I? It’s a bit rundown, but the seventy or so servants and acres and acres of land should more than make up for any inconvenience. Or maybe the château in the south of France would be
more to her liking? I don’t know why I didn’t think of that myself, what with my many,
many
—”

Apollo cut short this diatribe by shoving his friend’s head in the basin of water.

Makepeace came up roaring, shaking his head so vigorously that Apollo might as well have taken the dip himself.

“Ahem.”

Both men whirled at the gentle cough.

The aristocrat who stood just inside the door to Makepeace’s rooms wasn’t particularly tall—Asa had several inches on him and Apollo topped him by more than a head. The man was posed, one hip cocked gracefully, his hand languidly holding a gold-and-ebony cane. He was attired in a pink suit lavishly embroidered in bright blues, greens, gold, and black. Instead of the common white wig, he wore his golden hair unpowdered—though curled and carefully tied back with a black bow. Apollo had mentally named Valentine Napier, 7th Duke of Montgomery, a fop the first time he’d met him—the night Harte’s Folly had burned—and he’d had no cause to change that impression in the intervening months. He had, however, added an adjective: Montgomery was a
dangerous
fop.

“Gentlemen.” Montgomery’s upper lip twitched as if in amusement. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

He looked slyly between them, making Apollo stiffen.

“Only my morning toilet,” Makepeace said, ignoring the insinuation. He grabbed a cloth and vigorously rubbed his hair. “Feel free to go away and come back at a more convenient time,
Your Grace
.”

“Oh, but you’re such a busy man,” Montgomery murmured, poking with his gold-topped cane at a stack of
papers piled on a chair. The papers slid off, landing with a dusty crash on the floor. A tiny smile flickered across Montgomery’s face and Apollo was reminded of a gray cat his mother had once kept when he was a boy. The creature had loved to stroll along the mantelpiece in his mother’s sitting room, delicately batting the ornaments off the shelf. The cat had watched each ornament smash on the hearth with detached interest before moving on to the next.

“Do have a seat,” Makepeace drawled. He pulled open a drawer in a chest and took out a shirt.

“Thank you,” Montgomery replied without any sign of embarrassment. He sat, crossed his legs, and flicked a minuscule piece of lint off the silk of his breeches. “I’ve come to see about my investment.”

Apollo frowned. He’d been against taking money from Montgomery from the start, but Makepeace had somehow talked him into it with his usual glib tongue. Apollo couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d made a pact with the Devil. Montgomery had been abroad for over ten years before his abrupt return to London and society. No one seemed to know much about the man—or what he’d been doing for those ten years—even if his title and family name were well known.

Such mystery gave Apollo an itch between the shoulder blades.

“Good,” Makepeace said loudly. “Everything’s going just dandy. Smith here has the landscaping well in hand.”

“Sssm-i-th,” Montgomery drew out the ridiculous name Makepeace had given Apollo, making the sound into a sibilant hiss. He turned to Apollo and smiled quite sweetly. “And I believe that Mr. Makepeace said that your first name is Samuel, is it not?”

“He prefers Sam,” Makepeace growled, tacking on a hasty “Your Grace.”

“Indeed.” Montgomery was still smiling, almost to himself. “Mr. Sam Smith. Any relation to the Horace Smiths of Oxfordshire?”

Apollo shook his head once.

“No? A pity. I have some interests there. But it
is
a very common name,” Montgomery murmured. “And what plans do you have for the garden, may I ask?”

Apollo flipped to the back of his notebook and showed it to the duke.

Montgomery leaned forward, examining with pursed lips the sketches Apollo had made.

“Very nice,” he said at last, and sat back. “I’ll drop by the garden later today to take a look, shall I?”

Apollo and Makepeace exchanged glances.

“No need for that, Your Grace,” Makepeace began for the both of them.

“I know there’s no need. Call it a whim. In any case, I shan’t be denied. Expect me, Mr.
Smith
.”

Apollo nodded grimly. He couldn’t put his finger on why it bothered him, but he didn’t like the idea of the duke sniffing about his garden.

Montgomery twirled his walking stick, watching the glint of light off the gold top. “I collect that we’ll soon be in need of an architect to design and rebuild the various buildings in the pleasure garden.”

“Sam’s just started work on the garden,” Makepeace said. “He’s got quite a lot to do—you’ve seen the state the place is in. There’s plenty of time to find an architect.”

“No,” Montgomery replied firmly, “there isn’t. Not if we’re to reopen the garden within the next year.”

“Within a year?” Makepeace squawked.

“Indeed.” Montgomery stood and ambled to the door. “Haven’t I told you? I’m afraid I’m quite an impatient man. If the garden isn’t ready for visitors—and the money they’ll spend—by April of next year, I’m afraid I shall need my capital repaid.” He pivoted at the door and shot them another of his cherubic smiles. “With interest.”

He closed the door gently behind him.

“Well, bollocks,” Makepeace said blankly.

Apollo couldn’t help but agree.

“I
S
WANTONISH
A
real word?” Lily asked Maude several days later.

She sat at the kitchen-cum-dining-room table while Maude hung their washing next to the fireplace.

“
Wantonish
,” Maude said, rolling the word around her mouth. She shook her head decisively as she twitched one of Indio’s shirts into place over the drying rack. “No, never heard of it.”