Lady Beware (8 page)

When he'd heard the news Darien hadn't felt a twinge of grief, but he'd wished they'd died less obtrusively. He wished it even more now. Marcus's foul crime had been six years ago and he'd been dead for five, but the Wrath of God had occurred only last year.

Was this cartoon being reprinted and displayed again? At whose instigation? As he crushed the image in his fist, the knocker hammered again. “God Almighty! What now?” he exclaimed, rising to his feet. Bad things, he remembered, came in threes.

He strode to the door to meet his fate, but it opened to show Prussock again, looking even crosser. “You have a guest, milord,” he accused.

“You mean a visitor, Prussock.”

“No, milord. The gentleman says he has come to stay.”

“Who—”

But the gentleman in question appeared behind the butler, large, round, beaming, and as always resembling a six-foot-tall cherub. “Nice house, Canem,” said Pup Uppington, erstwhile lieutenant in Darien's regiment. Darien stared, wondering what he'd done to deserve this.

Pup had been christened Percival Arthur Uppington by parents who'd hoped for a mighty warrior. When he'd turned out to be short of a full dozen they'd sent him into the army anyway. By some miracle he'd survived long enough to make it from cornet to lieutenant, being passed around regiments until he'd landed, confused but willing, under Captain Cave's command.

It had seemed that the whole army had agreed that Pup fit beautifully there, by name if for no other reason. He'd acquired the nickname “Pup” in school, but the prospect of making him Canem's Pup had been too much for anyone to resist.

That might have been why Darien hadn't tried to shuffle him off, and why he'd kept Pup alive over the Pyrenees, through France and the false peace, and even through Waterloo. The unfortunate consequence was that Pup was as devoted as a puppy. Darien had thought he'd shed him when Pup had inherited a godfather's money late last year, but Pup had stayed in the army, devoted as always.

When Darien himself had sold his commission, he'd assumed that would sever the cord, especially as Pup had left at the same time to claim his modest fortune. What in Hades was he doing here?

“Thank you, Prussock,” Darien said, rather dazedly.

When the butler stepped to the side and worked around Pup to leave, he revealed an astonishing waistcoat curving over Pup's belly, one composed of blue and yellow paisley. Pup's clothing was all disastrously in the absolutely latest style, including collar points that rose over his ears and a mass of cravat at the front that was probably supposed to be something fanciful like the waterfall knot, but reminded Darien of a cauliflower.

“What are you doing here, Pup?”

“Fancied a bit of London,” the young man replied. “Thought, Canem has a house. No wife, no family. Must want some company.” His beam showed his certainty of doing a saintly deed.

Yes, indeed. Trouble did come in threes.

“You won't like it here, Pup. I'm persona non grata.”

“Persona what?”

“Not welcome. No invitations. No parties. No anything.” Hell, he was starting to talk like him. “You'll be more comfortable at an inn. Or a hotel,” he quickly amended. The restrained propriety of a hotel would be much safer.

Pup, loose, unaccompanied in London.

Double hell.

“This is fine, Canem. Better than many billets we've had, eh?”

Why the devil hadn't he let Pup drown in the Loire when he'd had the chance? Darien was assembling new arguments when there was another knock.

“Come!” he yelled. This was against the rules. There couldn't be
four
.

Prussock bore a single letter—on the salver this time, and with an air of portent. “From the Duchess of Yeovil!” he declared, loud enough for the residents next door to hear.

Darien took the letter, braced for the judgment of the Fates. He snapped the large crested seal and unfolded the expensive paper—to find a warmly phrased thank-you for his assistance to her son.

Not four. Instead, the first step to victory.

“Duchess, eh?” Pup chortled. “Knew you were funning about grata stuff! Canem Cave, after all. Welcome everywhere! Which room shall I have?”

Perhaps it was the sweetness of the minor victory, or simply that he couldn't toss the moonling out to fend for himself in one of the wickedest cities in the world, but Darien didn't struggle. Pup could have Marcus's old room. His innocent cheer might fumigate it and scare off the ghosts. He carried Pup's valise upstairs while the young man shouldered his trunk without strain.

“No valet, Pup?”

“Had one. Frightened me.”

“Use mine while you're here. He's not frightening, but he does drink.”

As he put Pup's valise down in the room, an idea stirred. Was it possible to hire the equivalent of a lady's companion for a man? Young men traveling for their education had bear-leaders to guide them and keep them out of harm. Why not a combination of valet and tutor to guide Pup through life?

Have to be just the right person. Someone who wouldn't take advantage.

Van might know. Or his Fate-full wife.

He turned to leave, but Pup said, “So, what'll we do now?”

“I'm busy, Pup. Lots of paperwork with a title.”

“Tonight, then. I want to visit a London brothel, Canem. The
best
brothel in London.”

Darien closed his eyes briefly. “We'll go out and see the sights,” he promised and escaped.

He stopped by the drawing room. At this rate, he might need it. He raised one white cotton cover and saw an old-fashioned heavy sofa. Beneath the cloth on the floor was an adequate carpet. The walls were painted a rather depressing buff, but probably with minimum work the room could be usable.

He wondered when this room had indeed last been used. Hard to imagine his father hosting a drawing room affair, and his mother had stopped coming to London early in her married life, unwilling to fight the arctic ton. He himself had never come here. Before going to school, he'd been trapped at Stours Court.

His grandmother? Equally unlikely. Devil Darien's wife had sued for separation on the grounds of intolerable cruelty, and got it. So her rule here could only have been in the early years of that marriage, long, long ago.

He wondered about the shrouded pictures on the walls and pulled off one cloth. A gloomy landscape with towering mountains and small figures. Another revealed a blank-faced woman in the fashion of the last century. Probably Devil's wife, before escaping hell.

Was there a picture of his mother here? He'd never seen one and his own memory of her was faint. He pulled off more shrouds and found a portrait of his father.

It was a reasonably good oil of a coarse-featured man who looked to be in his thirties. It had probably been painted when he'd inherited the title, long before he married. If the artist had been a flatterer, God help them all.

Even then, the Vile Viscount's heavy face had been blotched and ruddy, his nose bloated, his brown hair thin. Chins hung over a sloppily tied neckcloth and his round belly strained the buttons of a plain waistcoat. All the same, he sat straddle-legged and confident of his power.

The image resembled the older man Darien remembered, including the slack, reddish lips and pouched, cruel eyes—eyes that seemed to look at him now and say,
Think you're better than me, lad? You're a Cave, too, and no one will ever forget it.

“Who's that?”

Pup's voice startled Darien. Of course he'd come to find him. Would he know a moment's peace?

“You don't see a resemblance?” he asked.

Pup walked to stand in front of the picture. “Of who? Bit of the regent, perhaps. Remember, when he reviewed the regiment last year?”

Darien laughed aloud. Pup might be good to have around after all. He found a sturdy chair beneath one cloth, carried it over, and with Pup's help unhooked the heavy painting.

That revealed a square of clear yellow paint behind.

Let that be a good sign.

He carried the picture into his father's old rooms and shut the door on it. Pup was hovering, looking tail-waggingly keen to do more furniture moving.

“Have to work,” Darien said, and escaped back to his office.

All the same, he felt lighter than he had in eons. Van, the duchess's letter, and even Pup contributed. Exasperating as Pup was, he was the antithesis of everything the Cave name stood for. But then Darien remembered the blood on the doorstep and
The Wrath of God
. Cave House was no place for any innocent. He'd have to sort out Pup's situation soon.

When he sat to his ledgers and leases again, however, his mind wouldn't stick to them. He sat back and reviewed.

The duchess's letter showed that Lady Theodosia hadn't told her mother what had happened. Therefore, she must be willing to go through with the bargain. He hadn't been at all sure she would. Especially after that kiss.

So, he even had something to look forward to—his next encounter with the Great Untouchable.

He laughed at that name. It was as stupid as Mad Dog Cave.

T
hea spent the rest of Wednesday fearing a Cave invasion and, against logic, worried that she'd encounter the man at the Almack's assembly. Of course, even he couldn't bully his way past the formidable patronesses, so she flung herself into the delights of a normal evening.

She chatted with friends and danced every dance, and Lord Avonfort proposed. It was the fifth time, and for the fifth time she put him off, but she was in such a good mood that she might have accepted him if not for the Cave business. She wasn't going to betroth herself to the Vile Viscount, but promising to marry someone else right now would be a bit much.

For some reason, Avonfort chose this occasion to persist.

“Why not, Thea? You know we're ideally suited.”

“Yes,” she said honestly, for she did.

He was a handsome, brown-haired man of twenty-eight and generally acknowledged as one of the most elegant dressers in the ton. He had a lovely house and estate not far from Long Chart. She'd known him all her life, and liked his mother and two sisters. His youngest sister, now Lady Kingstable, was a particular friend.

“I can't make such a commitment yet, Avonfort. Dare—”

“He himself is engaged to marry, Thea, so he can hardly object if you do the same.”

“That's not what I mean. It's simply that I need some calm before making important decisions.”

“How much time?” he demanded—rather imperiously, she thought.

She wanted to snap,
As much time as I want
, but instead she said, “Six weeks,” the term Lord Darien had hung over her head. No matter what happened, in six weeks she'd be free.

“Six weeks!” he protested. “That's the whole season.”

“And I want to enjoy the whole season. We'll talk more at Long Chart in the summer.”

He frowned, but she saw him take that as a guarded promise. He was probably correct, but it annoyed her. It also made her even more determined to sort out her situation with the Vile Viscount.

On Thursday morning, she asked her mother about Mr. Thoresby's report, but it hadn't appeared yet. In case the Vile Viscount invaded, she went to visit Maddy.

Her cousin was only just out of bed and still in her nightclothes, but she was bright-eyed, with only one subject on her mind. “Have you seen Lord Darien yet?”

Shedding her outer clothing, Thea lied by instinct. “No.”

“I haven't either, but last night Caroline Camberley said he's Conrad to the very inch! Have some chocolate.” She shouted for her maid to find another cup.

“Conrad? Conrad who?”

“The Corsair!”

“Oh, Byron,” Thea said, taking a seat. Lord Byron's dramatic poem,
The Corsair
, had been all the rage a while back. “In what way?”

“In manner, for one thing.” Maddy had the slim volume to hand and turned to a marked page. “Listen!
‘That man of loneliness and mystery, / Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh.'
Isn't that wonderful?”

It resonated, but Thea said, “He sounds very disagreeable.”

“You have no romance in your soul. I will
die
if I don't meet him, but he doesn't seem to be going anywhere. Mama's saying he'll be thrown out if he dares.”

It couldn't be a secret, so Thea said, “Mother is planning his social reinstatement, so you'll probably have many chances.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Maddy moved on to another passage.
“‘What is that spell, that thus his lawless train / Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain? / What should it be, that thus their faith can bind? / The power of thought—the magic of the mind!'
The magic of the mind,” she repeated, clutching the book to her breasts. “Imagine being powerless before a man's demanding will.”

“Absolutely horrid,” Thea stated.

“Thea, you're impossible.”

The maid returned with a cup and saucer and Maddy poured chocolate. “A pity he's ugly.”

“Darien? I wouldn't say…” Thea stopped herself and Maddy didn't notice her slip.

“Conrad!” Maddy recited from memory.
“‘Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, / Demons in act, but Gods at least in face, / In Conrad's form seems little to admire.'
I'd love to meet a god.”

Thea sipped her chocolate, struggling not to laugh. “An old man with a white beard?”

“Apollo! Adonis!”

“Neptune with seaweed for hair?”

Maddy threw a cushion at her.

“You can't believe Caroline on anything,” Thea said, putting the cushion aside. “But Lord Darien doesn't sound to your taste.”

“He has a ‘glance of fire,'” Maddy said.

“Lord Darien? How alarming.”

“Conrad! From dark eyes. Which Darien does have. I must meet him soon. Promise, Thea, if you hear he is to be at any event, alert me!”

“Really, Maddy, he's best left alone.” Thea grabbed the book. Like everyone else, she knew the poem almost by heart and it only took a moment to find the passage.

Instead of dismay, Maddy sighed. “Oh.
Delicious.
”

Thea slammed the book shut. “You're fit for Bedlam.”

“Then it is glorious to be mad!”

Thea endured another half hour of Maddy's ravings before making her escape, but that passage of poetry ran in her head. It sounded all too apt. This was the man she expected to see sense? The man who had reason, no matter how distant and warped, to hate her family?

When she returned home, she met her mother in the upstairs corridor.

“How is Maddy?” the duchess asked.

“Running mad over the Corsair.”

Her mother put a hand to the wall. “Never say she's taken up with a pirate!”

Thea laughed. “Of course not. The poem. Byron.”

Her mother's expression was almost as appalled. “Lord Byron is back?”

“Poem, not poet, Mama. Conrad, Medora, Gulnare, harems.”

“Oh, that.” The duchess continued with Thea toward the bedrooms. “Such a tale of folly. Medora was in the right of it to point out that her husband had enough money to stay at home and enjoy domestic life. So why sail off again to plunder?”

“Because men enjoy action and danger.”

“So true. Did you hear that Cardew Frobisher lies seriously injured after trying to enter the Tower over the wall?”

“Why on earth did he do that?”

“Exactly! Why, when there are perfectly adequate entrances? After surviving the war with hardly a scratch. His poor mother.”

“I always thought Medora made a mistake in trying to tempt Conrad with evenings of music and reading,” Thea said. “She'd have done better with hearty meals, manly company, and lots of hunting.”

Her mother chuckled. “So wise, dearest. You'll make any man a wonderful wife. I saw you with Avonfort last night.” Her tone was coy.

“Yes, he proposed again. I'm just not ready, Mama.”

“As you said, you deserve a lighthearted season before settling down.”

But clearly in the duchess's eyes, too, the match was settled.

At Thea's door, her mother asked, “Do you wish to come out with me later?”

Thea knew she'd be highly unlikely to meet Darien on morning calls, but she'd be safer at home. With both her mother and father out, she could simply refuse to see him if he called.

“I'd rather practice the piano,” she said. “I have a new piece I'd like to play after dinner tomorrow.”

“That will be pleasant, dear.”

Dinner made Thea think of Darien and confrontation, but music did soothe her—until her mother returned from the social round, still dressed in high fashion and cross. “So tiresome. Such unfair comments about Darien! I moderated them as best I could, but I couldn't yet come out in full support.”

“I suppose not.”

“Phoebe Wilmott's left Town. Never has a quiet departure been so thunderous.”

“You can't blame her, Mama. To encounter Darien would be exquisitely painful.”

“
Our
Lord Darien bears no responsibility for her daughter's death. Come along to my room so I can change into something more comfortable as we consider this. Even the Vile Viscount wasn't to blame for Mary Wilmott's death,” she said, leading the way briskly, “unless one blames the parent for the child. So unfortunate that they are neighbors.”

Thea was having trouble following. “Who are neighbors?”

“Darien and the Wilmotts. I suppose opposite sides of the square is not quite neighbors.”

“Cave House is on the same square…?” Thea gasped. “How unbearable!”

“Phoebe's borne it for years,” her mother said, with unusual tartness as she entered her bedroom.

“But not
inhabited
,” Thea pointed out. “With the chance of meeting a Cave any day.”

“That's how the murder came to happen,” the duchess said, as her maid helped her shed bonnet and layers. “Mary Wilmott would hardly have been at large in London at night. I suppose she must have thought the square's private garden was safe as only residents have keys. Ah, yes.” She picked up a folder of papers. “Mr. Thoresby's preliminary report.”

“What does it say?” Thea asked, fingers itching to open it.

“Oh, the usual. Educated at home, Harrow, of course, then the army. I am most cross with Wellington.”

Thea stared. “Why?” The duke was everyone's darling these days.

“Would you believe that he was responsible for that Mad Dog name? Fortunately it didn't become Darien's principal nickname. Only think of poor Fuzzy Staceyhume, called that because his hair was wild in his youth, and now he's mostly bald. Or Wolf Wolverton, and he the most gentlemanly man imaginable. Or Mad Jack Mytton. But then,” the duchess added thoughtfully, “he truly was mad—”

“Mother!”

“What?”

“The report? It must contain some negatives.”

“Not really, but by all means read it.” She passed it over. “Darien hasn't paid much attention to his estates, but he's not long out of the army. I'm sure he'll attend to them when he settles down. He'll doubtless apply himself to Parliament and local administration as well, and he may well want a position at the Horse Guards, having military experience.”

Thea escaped with the report, feeling she should warn Darien of this onslaught of responsibilities, but also thinking he might be well served for imposing himself on her family.

Once in her room, she flipped through the papers. The closely written pages included accounts and a family tree. She glanced at that, but it was sparse. Four sons in Darien's family. Two in his father's. One in his grandfather's.

In some families the increase could be seen as progress, but not with Caves.

His Italian mother had been called Maddalena D'Auria, and nothing further was said about her. She'd died when her youngest child, Francis Angelo, was three. So Darien would have been seven.

Darien's name was Horatio Raffaelo. Angels, she scoffed to herself. Satan and Lucifer would have been more appropriate.

The oldest son had been named for the Roman emperor and philosopher Marcus Aurelius. That had been a wild stab at optimism, as had Christian for the second. Christian Michelangelo.

What strange aspirations lay behind such names? What lay behind her own? Theodosia—God's gift. She put that aside and settled to reading.

Thoresby had uncovered that Horatio Cave had been expelled from Harrow for fighting, but not why, or anything about Dare and
cave canem
. There were the dates of Darien's army career and his decadelong progression from cornet to major. He'd received rapid promotion to lieutenant because of a battle in which the senior officers of his regiment had been killed or injured. Cornet Cave had taken charge and led the men successfully.

She realized that he'd been only sixteen years old.

She had no trouble in believing that story, or others of courage, decisiveness, and command. She might admire it if she and her family weren't the enemy this formidable man was attacking.

She paused on an incident involving Vandeimen. It seemed Canem Cave and Demon Vandeimen had ended up behind enemy lines, each with a small troop of men. By dash and courage, their combined forces had not only fought clear but captured three French officers and a chest of gold.