Lady Beware (32 page)

D
arien entered his house from the back, passing through the empty servants' area and into the hall, wondering what the hell was going on. For days he'd been wary of some malice from Foxstall, and now he had it. But it was pointless.

On returning from his ride, Nid had given him a letter that had come to the stables. It was an incoherent plea from Pup to meet him at an inn across the river in Putney. He'd gone straight there, of course, but found Pup enjoying an enormous breakfast and believing Darien had arranged the meeting.

The message to Pup had been delivered by Foxstall, who'd also offered to return the key to Cave House. Pup had passed it over. So casually, a weapon given to an enemy. But to be used for what?

Darien had explained it away and sent Pup back home; then he'd returned to Cave House as quickly as possible. Now, he stripped off his gloves and tossed them, his cane, and hat on the hall table, looking for trouble.

He found it.

Blood on the floor of the hall.

Bloody footprints by the look of it, just like the ones outside yesterday. He knelt and touched fingers to the dark liquid, raising them afterward, but he knew. He was familiar with blood and this was recent. It might be wisest to leave and find help, perhaps Evesham, the magistrate, but if Foxstall had left a body in the house, he'd have done his best to make Darien look guilty of the killing.

He looked up the stairs, seeing smears of red on the handrail. His heart began to pound. The body of a person, this time, rather than a pig?

He picked up his cane and went upstairs slowly, sensing for danger at every step. Whatever else awaited, he hoped Foxstall was here. More than ever, he needed to kill him.

The smears grew scantier, but they led toward the back of the house.

To his room?

He approached his door listening, but heard nothing.

Not even the ticking of the hall clock.

He realized that no one would have wound it since the Prussocks fled.

But something was in the room. Every instinct he possessed said that. He grasped the doorknob, turned it quietly, and eased open the door.

His bedroom looked completely normal, even to the chess game he'd laid out to study. But the hangings around the bed were drawn. He never drew them in warmer weather. He moved forward as quietly as boots allowed, but froze at a noise. A rustling from behind the curtains.

Not a corpse then. A snake, a rabid dog? That might appeal to Foxstall's warped mind.

Keeping an eye on the curtains, Darien opened his chest, dug down, and pulled out his saber.
Forgot this, didn't you, Foxstall? Whatever vengeful mischief you've created here will come to a rapid, bloody end, and you're next.
He slid the blade out and put down the scabbard, then approached the bed, trying to analyze the slight sounds.

Cautiously, he parted the curtains with the blade tip.

He eased the curtain back. Some cloth on the bed. Another pig in a dress?

No noise at all, now. No hissing or snarling. No movement.

With the blade, he swept the curtain to the right, rings rattling, letting daylight in.

Then he tossed the weapon aside.

“Thea? My God, Thea? What's happened to you?”

She was pale as the pillow—where it wasn't stained with blood. Her blood. Her eyes were huge and blind with terror. She was bound.

He grabbed the saber again to cut the strip of cloth around her arms.

She screamed. By instinct, he clamped a hand over her mouth. “Hush, love. It's me. Darien. I'll have you free in a moment.”

Foxstall, Foxstall, death's too good for you. I'll flay you, inch by inch.

She was threshing her head and trying to claw, but he couldn't let her scream. If anyone came, she'd suffer even more. Her clothes were torn half off her….

He cut her hands free, and then her legs, then tossed the blade aside again and gathered her into his arms. She began choking in gasping sobs and he couldn't tell if it was still terror or relief. He clambered up on the bed and held her tightly, rocking her and saying whatever came into his head.

Then he saw fresh blood on his hand. “Thea, stop. You're bleeding again. Let me take care of you.”

She pushed away from him, fixated on his bloody hand. “Let me go, let me go!”

He did and she tumbled to the floor on the far side of the bed, her hair wildly straggling, and staring at him as if he were a wild beast.

“Thea,” he breathed, his heart breaking. He spoke as calmly as he could manage. “I didn't hurt you. Let me take care of you.” He stretched a hand out, saw the blood on it, and wiped it off on his breeches. When she stilled, he joined her on the floor, taking out his handkerchief and pressing it to the wound on her throat. Thank God it wasn't deep, nor was the livid scrape across one cheek, but she was bruised. He'd tried to strangle her?

And her unseen hurts could be worse.

She was still now, but not in a good way. He took off his jacket and put it around her shoulders, then went to pour some brandy. He put it to her lips. “Drink, love. It'll help.”

Dark eyes on him, she parted her lips and he tipped some in. Most dribbled away, but she swallowed a bit. She coughed and fell into weeping again, but blessedly in his arms now.

“Oh, love, oh love, I'll make it all right.” Thank God he'd remembered not to mention killing, even though it consumed his mind.

He rocked and soothed, unable to ask for details. When he thought she was able, he raised her to her feet, brushing tangled, blood-matted hair off her face. “Come, we must get you home….”

But then a crash downstairs was followed by voices—a wild howling of them coming up the stairs. His mind clicked into the cool clarity that had brought him alive through battle.

The rest of Foxstall's plan.

Catch them here.

He grabbed his saber in his right hand and half carried her out of the room and through the door to the serving stairs. He hated to abandon her, but the alternatives were worse.

“Stay there while I deal with this.” No time for more. He shut the door and stepped back into the corridor, saber out just as the invaders poured up the stairs.

“What the devil's going on?” he demanded.

“Devil's right!” snarled the red-faced man at the front of the pack. “Who've you murdered now, you Satan's spawn?”

It was Sir George Wilmott.

Darien was gathering a soothing comment when someone called, “His bed's all over blood!”

He'd forgotten the state of the room.

The press of fury pushed toward him, but halted when he flicked the saber. He wasn't willing to kill anyone here, but he was even less willing to be strung up by a mob convinced he was another Mad Marcus.

Above all, above all, Thea mustn't be found here, her reputation as shredded as her gown. He fought the need to go to her. He could serve her best here. He faced Wilmott's raging eyes. “I've done nothing wrong. Send for the magistrate. I'll come down in an orderly manner and we can sort this out.”

“Sort it out!” Sir George howled with laughter. “We'll sort it out all right, and this time it'll be the noose. That'll put an end to Caves forever.”

“Then you'll have to do me in, too.”

The new voice was used to calling out orders in a storm.

People turned. Not all of them. Some had wit enough to keep a close eye on Darien. But most swiveled to look behind to where Frank stood at the head of the stairs in his blue naval uniform, not smiling, but still managing to convey clean, honest goodwill and fellowship.

No one asked who he was. Dark hair and eyes and the cut of the jaw declared him a Cave, but as always, the magic of his charm worked.

B
afflement softened the mob's purpose. Sir George muttered something about devil's spawn, but his heart wasn't in it. That didn't mean he glared less at Darien, however. Hardly surprising, given the state of the bedroom.

Darien realized he was smeared with Thea's blood as well.

Frank was looking at him, a question in his eye. Part of it was a willingness to fight free of this mob, so Darien shook his head.

“Whatever the problem here,” Frank said, again with that crisp authority, “it will be sorted out in good order. Downstairs, everyone.”

The shuffling movement began, but Sir George resisted. “And leave him to slip out a back way? In front of me, Darien, so some of us can make sure you don't run.”

Few in the world would dare to speak to Canem Cave in that way, especially when he had a blade in his hand, but the man was right to feel safe at this moment. Darien stalked forward. A way cleared, which could well be because of the naked blade still in his hand, or because of his visible rage.

He hoped to reach Frank and somehow give him the word to take care of Thea, but the mob separated them as they all crowded down the narrow stairs and into the tight hall.

“Outside,” Frank ordered.

He was probably trying to reduce the danger of an accident, but Darien would have refused if he could. He didn't want this outside for the whole world to see—him, blade in hand, blood marking him. But then, perhaps the world should see this play out.

As he moved into daylight at the top of the stairs, Darien faced a growing, angry crowd. He was in real danger. If they decided to hang him on the spot, he and Frank alone couldn't stop them.

But then he saw Foxstall at the back of the crowd, lounging against the railings in his hussar uniform, watching his plan work, smiling his twisted smile. Nothing else mattered.

Darien charged down the stairs and across the street. People scattered, crying, “Stop him! Stop him!” but not trying themselves.

For a second, Foxstall still smiled, but then the smile fled and he straightened, dragging his saber free just in time to catch Darien's killing blow with a sparking clang.

“Someone stop this madman!” he cried, parrying and dodging.

No one tried, though Darien heard Frank call his name in protest.

“He did it! He…” He choked down details. Thea's name mustn't come into this.

“Did what?” Foxstall asked, alert to avoid his very real danger, but grinning all the same. “I think you truly have cracked at last, Canem. Can't someone hit him over the head or something? I don't want to hurt the idiot.”

“I intend to kill you,” Darien said, catching a breath.

Foxstall looked into Darien's eyes and saw truth. “You'll hang.”

“It will be worth it.” Darien slashed for the head again, was parried again, the shock of contact shooting up his arm. He was trained to fight on horseback, but so was Foxstall. They both had to think differently, move differently, but he'd kill him. Foxstall had to die.

“Whichever way, I win,” Foxstall taunted, dodging. His plan was clearly to look reluctant to fight and hope someone did intervene. “I kill you or you hang. And I had your woman first.”

Roaring, Darien slashed for his legs. Foxstall dodged, but his returning swing tangled in his fur-trimmed pelisse. He ran back a bit to steal time to drag the tie loose and shed it, then turned to swirl the heavy cloth over Darien's sword, following with a stab to the heart.

No more playing now.

Darien swept the cloth aside and twisted, but Foxstall's thrust ran along his ribs. Barely holding his balance, Darien slashed backhanded simply to stop Foxstall following up on his advantage.

His blade sank deep and jarred. He spun to see he'd got the neck.

Blood spurted from the artery. Foxstall's eyes and mouth opened in surprise, and then his legs crumpled. His fall would have pulled Darien down with him if he'd not let go of the saber. Foxstall's mouth moved, but then he died, still looking astonished.

Darien met those eyes, heaving for breath.

Foxstall had been a friend of sorts once.

He'd been a good officer in war but scum in every other way. The world was better without him, especially after what he'd done.

Thea, dear God,
Thea
.

The silence shattered into cries and howls. Wearily, almost past caring, he dragged his blade free and turned. Frank was already at his side, white-faced but resolute, his navy cutlass out.

“This will go to trial,” he declared, his voice carrying.

Certainly, with the railings at their backs and the crowd a crescent of gleeful anger around them, there was no escape. Darien knew he'd be lucky not to be strung up or kicked to death. And why the hell did Frank have to be here, possibly to suffer the same fate?

Then a carriage pulled by galloping horses rocked into the square at the same time as a troop of soldiers cantered in from the other side, weapons drawn.

“Magistrate and enforcement,” Darien said. “Three cheers.”

“Well, I'm damn glad to see them,” Frank said.

Darien wasn't so sure. Despite the justification he'd just killed a man. It could be called a duel, but without any of the protocol. In another case, it could be seen as murder in the eyes of the law. Men had hanged for such things before.

If he went on trial it would be in the House of Lords. A nine-day wonder to add to the Cave load, and Thea might become involved. Would she have had the strength and courage to flee the house alone?

“What did he do?” Frank asked, indicating Foxstall's corpse without much concern.

“You assume I had good cause.”

“Yes.”

Softly, Darien said, “He raped and harmed a lady of good family, in our house. She may still be in there, on the service stairs. I can take care of myself here. Go to her.”

“How?” Frank asked dryly.

True, they were penned in by the crowd, who still looked ready to tear them both to pieces.

The mounted soldiers forced a passage for Evesham. George Wilmott came with him, calm now with a dreadful satisfaction.

“Mad, the lot of 'em,” he declared to the mob. “I've been saying so all along. This one did murder in that accursed house, then rushed out to slaughter this noble officer, a mere bystander!”

“No, he wasn't,” Darien declared, though he doubted reason would rule here.

“Be quiet,” Evesham snapped at Sir George. “We'll have law and order here, not inflammatory speeches. Captain, move this rabble back. At the first sign of violence,” he bellowed at the crowd, “I'll read the Riot Act.”

That would allow the soldiers to use their weapons on civilians, and had some effect.

“Now,” Evesham said, “someone tell me what's gone on here. You.” He pointed at a dark-clad middle-aged man, who stepped forward to give a coherent account of sword fight and slaughter.

“Lord Darien was unprovoked, you say?” Evesham asked him.

“I can only attest to what I saw, sir. His Lordship raced out of the house and attacked the officer, who appeared merely to be watching the commotion.”

“The man's mad,” Sir George declared. “I keep telling you. Caves.” He spat.

Evesham glared at Frank. “You a Cave, too?”

“Lieutenant Cave, RN.”

“He had nothing to do with it as best I know,” Wilmott said reluctantly.

Darien had to appreciate his fairness. The man truly believed history had been repeated and he wanted blood. But only the deserving blood.

Evesham spoke to Frank. “Put up your sword, Lieutenant.” To Darien, he said, “Surrender yours peaceably, my lord, or I'll have you shot.”

Like a mad dog
ran silently through the air.

Darien passed the bloody saber to Frank, who offered it hilt-first to anyone who'd take it. The captain of the troopers rode forward and took it, though he didn't look pleased.

“Viscount Darien, you are under arrest for murder. Will you come peaceably?”

“Of course.” The sooner this part was over, the sooner Frank could take care of Thea.

“You will proceed to my coach, my lord—”

“Stop that!”

The high, rather thin cry turned everyone toward the house. Thea stood on the steps, still in Darien's dark green jacket, her clothing obviously torn, her hair all over the place.

Darien stepped forward. The cavalry captain pointed his own bloody saber at his chest to stop him.

“Frank, do something. Get her out of here before she's recognized.”

Frank tried to push through people and horses, but Thea was running down the steps in bare feet and across the square, crying, “Stop it, stop it, stop it. It wasn't him!”

The crowd parted, some puzzled, some aghast, some gleeful at the prospect of new drama among the great.

Darien looked up at the cavalry officer, whom he didn't know, damn it. “You have my parole. I'm not trying to escape.”

The man looked sympathetic, but shook his head.

Frank reached her, caught her to him, said something.

Thea looked up at him, clearly dazed by someone who looked like Darien but wasn't.

“Get her away, Frank. She needs care. He hurt her.”

Thea's eyes shot to his and she pulled free. “Yes,
he
hurt me!” she cried, pointing at Foxstall. “He trapped me, hurt me. He wanted you all to think Lord Darien did it.”

“Now, why would that be?” the magistrate asked, not unkindly, but without belief.

She spun to him. “Because he hated him. I mean Captain Foxstall hated Lord Darien. You have to believe me!”

“And your name?” the magistrate asked.

“Is none of anyone's business,” Darien said quickly. “Frank, get her away. She's shocked out of her wits, but I hope,” he said to Sir George Wilmott, “that you'll believe at least that I didn't murder any lady in my house today.”

“Only because we arrived in time.”

“He was
helping
me!” Thea pulled out Darien's bloodstained handkerchief. “See. This is his!”

“Frank…,” Darien said, but the magistrate said, “The lady's not going anywhere until I know what part she played in this, especially when I don't know who she is.”

“I'm Lady Theodosia Debenham,” Thea said clearly. “Daughter of the Duke of Yeovil. And Lord Darien is my promised husband.”

Frank's eyes met Darien's, wide.

“I'm sure it was an irregular fight,” Thea continued, like a stone statue speaking, “but it's hardly surprising that Lord Darien attacked Captain Foxstall after I told him who'd hurt me so badly.”

Darien had been staring at her in an attempt to get her to shut up, but now he simply looked at her, humbled by her foolish courage.

“Now,” she said with that inborn dignity that had once infuriated him, “may I please go to him?”

A way opened and she walked through it, chin high, as if blind to all around, into his arms. He held her close. “You shouldn't have done that.”

Against his chest, shivering, she said, “Yes, I should. But take me home, Darien. Please.”

“You have my parole, sirs,” Darien said to the captain, the magistrate, and to Sir George. “I won't try to escape the law, but Lady Thea needs to be taken away from here.”

A duke's daughter exposed half dressed to the fascinated eyes of the mob was a trump card.

“Use my carriage, sir,” the magistrate said.

“What?” Sir George exploded. “Let him drive off with his victim?”

Thea jerked free to face him. “I am not his
victim
, you stupid man.”

Darien almost laughed. “Why don't you come with us, Sir George? Your guardianship will be golden.”

That seemed to stump the man, but only for a moment. He demanded a pistol from one of the troopers.

Darien pulled a wry face at Frank. “Welcome home. Take care of things here. There's a slim chance I may be allowed to return later to clean up my own mess.”

Frank was clearly bursting with questions, but he nodded.

Darien picked up Thea and carried her to the carriage, ignoring Sir George close behind. It was harder to ignore him when he was sitting opposite, the large pistol ready, clearly longing for the excuse to fire it.

Darien kept Thea on his lap, holding her close, helpless to wipe the horror from her life. The horror he had brought.