The Diabolical Baron

by Mary Jo Putney

  Caroline gasped and turned red. Cold as steel, Richard’s voice cut across the silence. “I assume that you wish to rephrase that comment, since there can be no reason for you to wish to insult a lady you have only just met.”

  Reggie shot him a startled glance, suddenly reminded that Army officers needed more than politeness to maintain order amongst rowdy soldiers.

  “Of course no insult was intended,” he said smoothly. “I fear that Jason Kincaid and I have been acquainted any time these last thirty years, and have disliked each other a bit more each time we have met. My envy of his finding such a lovely lady misled my tongue.”

  He sketched another bow, staring at Caroline in frank admiration. The light muslin day dress clung to her slim waist and soft curves. She seemed unaware of her comeliness, adding to her charm. And she was Jason’s. How delightful it would be to seduce such innocence while serving an old enemy a backhanded turn. Pity he wouldn’t have the opportunity; young misses were usually so heavily guarded. Chaperones were the bane of his existence.

  While Reggie was mentally licking his chops, Richard stepped forward and offered Caroline his arm. “Shall we adjourn to the music room?” She took his arm gratefully and they turned to leave.

  ‘‘It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Davenport,” she said uncertainly. “Perhaps I will see you again soon.”

  As they entered the music room she gave way to the shudder she had held in check. “What an unpleasant man! His eyes seem to leave slimy tracks like slugs. Perhaps it is just as well that... that I won’t be able to come here as often now.” She ended her words in a rush, looking at Richard with wide, unhappy eyes.

  He disengaged his arm and said gently, “Lord Radford has returned?”

  She nodded. “Yes, late last night. I expect I will be more busy now. Perhaps we can still play together some, but. . . there won’t be as much time.” And it won’t be the same. She didn’t say the last words out loud but she could hear them hanging in the air between them. She looked up at Richard’s face, studying it carefully as if to memorize it.

  He looked less tired and drawn than when they met. It had been hardly more than a week, yet she felt she had known him forever. These last few days she had drifted in a happy haze, never thinking how quickly it must end. The intent hazel eyes were looking more green than gold today.

  She noticed with mild surprise how handsome he was; he had seemed so familiar from the very beginning that she hadn’t studied his face closely. For the first time she saw a faint hairline scar along his left cheekbone. She put her hand up and touched it, lightly as a butterfly wing. “How did this happen?”

  “A piece of shrapnel at Badajoz. A very minor thing.”

  She shuddered. “An inch higher and you would have lost an eye, yet this is ‘a minor thing.’ What is war like?”

  He led her across to the benches where they often sat and played. He looked thoughtful as he took his guitar and absently tuned it, finally saying, “That’s a difficult question to answer. Why do you want to know?”

  She said shyly, “I want to make music about it, and I…I can do that only if I understand. I have led such a quiet life. There is so little I truly know about that it limits what I can create.”

  She paused, then added in an almost inaudible voice, “I am just beginning to think of myself as a composer. I never dared do that before. But if I am a real musician, I must reach out to learn more about the world, if only through others.”

  Richard settled against the back of the bench, unconsciously straightening his bad leg out in front of him. “For someone of limited experience you have already created great depth in your music. But if you wish, I shall try to explain war,” he said musingly. “It’s a day-to-day business of boredom and discomfort, looking for whatever small way you can improve your lot. It’s terror so intense it ceases to have meaning. It’s going forward knowing that many of your company will surely die, and all that keeps you moving is a fear of disgracing yourself that is stronger than the fear of death.”

  As he talked, he plucked chords from the instrument in a counterpoint underlining his words. As she listened she could see the mad exhilaration of a battle charge, the desolation of the field after the last shot had been fired, the loneliness of the night watches, the diseases that killed more men than the bullets, the intense companionship, the awestruck wonder of survival, the inexpressible thunder of the guns.

  She never knew how long he spoke, but when he finally ended with a last haunting minor-key chord she found herself with tears in her eyes.

  “‘Thank you’ seems inadequate, I feel you have taken me to another world.” Beyond that, she felt he had shown her a glimpse of his soul, but she knew no words to say that. “Will you sing with me?” she said impulsively. “I have thought our voices would blend well.”

  She couldn’t judge how they would sound to others, but she had never loved singing more. His beautiful dark velvet voice supported and harmonized with her clear tones. Once again they seemed to share the same musical taste and rhythms. They sang old songs from all over the British Isles, modern Italian duets, French ballads. As the afternoon drew to a close, Richard lightened the mood with a series of playful Spanish songs. After hearing one verse, she could harmonize without words. She would try to guess the song’s meaning from the music; then he would translate it for her.

  “The one we just sang was about... Sorry, I had better not translate that one!” he said with a laugh after the fifth or sixth Spanish tune.

  “Is it improper?” she asked, making her eyes huge and innocent.

  “Most improper,” he said firmly. “Now that I think of it, I believe I have exhausted my supply of Spanish songs that can be sung in mixed company. Shall I play some of the Spanish dances for you?”

  An hour later they walked slowly back to Wildehaven, reluctant to end the afternoon. Caroline had the heavy feeling that it was her last free, unconstrained time with Richard. Lord Radford’s forceful energy seemed to be engulfing her; from now on most of her time would belong to him. She wondered if it would matter to the captain. He seemed to enjoy her company, but he had never said anything indicating a stronger feeling.

  She determinedly pushed speculation from her mind; there would be time enough for brooding later. For the moment, she still felt free, and alive with passionate Spanish rhythms. As they entered a flower-floored glade where the slanting sunshine gave a strange, magical glow, Caroline paused and said, “I’ve always felt this would be a place where the Small Folk would dance. Whenever I come through, I feel like joining them.”

  “Why don’t you?” Richard asked with a half-smile. “I’m sure they wouldn’t object. Sometimes you seem to be half-fairy yourself; they should welcome you.”

  She looked up with an eager glance, then paused, unable to avoid a quick look at his damaged leg. Richard saw the direction of her eyes and said quietly, “I’m afraid my dancing days are done. You shall have to do it for both of us. Go ahead, Caro.”

  It was the first time he had used the diminutive of her name; it felt astonishingly intimate. She gave him a slow sweet smile, then moved into the center of the glade. Closing her eyes, she reached out with all her senses, absorbing the leafy scent, the small bird sounds, the slight breeze that caressed her cheek and rippled her thin muslin gown.

  Her whole life had been lived to a background of music, like a great river flowing through her spirit, highs and lows blending into magical rhythms she could never quite express aloud. Often she would let them run free in her mind when she played or dreamed or composed. Now for the first time she let the torrent she felt in her soul run free in her body.

  She began a slow swaying, then started to glide and turn in a dance as natural and graceful as eiderdown on the wind. Her eyes were open but unfocused as she listened to music only she could hear. All she had known of joy in her life was bound together with a profound new emotion coming from the center of her being. Her voice sang a wordless accompaniment to her dance, the cr
ystalline tones filling the clearing like a sorcerer’s incantation.

  At the end she drifted across the grass and swept into a deep formal curtsy in front of Richard, one hand lifted toward him. She realized now what she had danced: it was the most ancient of mysteries and its name was Love.

  As Richard moved toward her she studied the bright brown hair; the wide hazel eyes, a little remote now; his handsome face, inexpressibly dear. The broad-shouldered figure moved smoothly in spite of the limp that kept him forever earthbound, unable to dance his soul as she had just done. All thoughts of propriety had vanished as she danced in the clearing, and she wished with every fiber of her being for him to kiss her.

  Instead he took her hand, his strong brown fingers enclosing hers. Even that simple contact affected her more than she would have dreamed possible, and she wondered if she were visibly trembling. Could he feel it too, the slow fire that spread from her fingers and through her body?

  He said gently, “Come, Titania. I must return you to the lands of men.”

  She rose from her curtsy and shook some twigs from her hem, too moved by her newfound feelings to attempt speech. If she had known how, she would have told him of her love. Even if he didn’t return her feelings, she knew he would be kind, be she ever so much a fool.

  There has never been anything important in my life that I have been able to find the words for, she thought wretchedly. The logical part of her mind said it would be wrong to speak of love. She was bound past redemption to another man; and no lady would behave so forwardly. But I’ve never been a logical creature, she thought with wry humor. Any number of people have told me so.

  With all of her emotional nature she wanted to tell him how she felt because she feared there would never be another chance. It seemed unbearably cruel that such an intensity of caring would never see the light of day.

  She was still mute as they reached the clearing around Wildehaven. As was the custom of these last days, he waited at the edge while she crossed alone to the great house. She stood at the side door and looked back at the brown figure in the shadows of the wood until he turned and vanished, feeling the tightness in her chest of a grief too deep for words. If she couldn’t speak in the aftermath of that ancient mystery dance, she would never find the courage in the future. Her face was set in the remote lines of a Greek statue as she returned to her chamber to dress for dinner.

  * * * *

  Richard walked in the woods for hours before returning to Wargrave, his emotions in a tumult. From the moment he had first seen Caroline glowing with sunlight, to this afternoon’s fey dance of unearthly beauty, she had touched realms of his heart entirely new to him. He had never wanted anything or anyone as he wanted Caroline, yet she was pledged to another man. It had been madness to spend these last days together, oblivious of her commitment and the world’s possible censure.

  He smiled without humor; if Radford found out and took exception to their intimacy, he would be within his rights to call Richard out. That was no great worry in itself, but the repercussions for Caroline could be devastating.

  He had studied her carefully these last days and seen no sign that she was in love with Radford. If he were absolutely sure of that, he would be courting her openly. Not the act of a gentleman perhaps, but social conventions were a thin facade compared with the primal emotions Caroline aroused in him.

  He felt he knew her, perhaps better than she knew herself—the sensitivity, the innocent clarity of spirit, the stunning musical talent. Being with her was pure joy—the sound of her light rippling laughter, the sweet dreaminess, the unexpected flashes of dry wit. He loved them with as much intensity as he desired to touch that delicate face, as fine-grained as a rose petal.

  Yet it would be the act of a vandal to force unwanted attentions on her. She was happy in his company, but perhaps it was just the pleasure of their shared love of music. She was as unconscious of her loveliness as a flower; he doubted if she had any idea of the effect she had on him.

  He found that he was whistling “Greensleeves.” Alas, my love, You do me wrong, To cast me off so discourteously ... Not entirely appropriate, perhaps; but the melancholy sweetness of the ancient tune haunted him the way her graceful movements did.

  He was limping badly when he returned to War-grave, his leg aching from the long walk and the chill evening air. He knew he must speak to her, and soon, before time ran out. He would never forgive himself if he lost her through inaction. And hadn’t he fought other forlorn hopes in the Army?

  * * * *

  Richard was unusually quiet that night, even for a man who had been known to say that few things improve on silence. Apart from asking the butler, Somers, for any mail from London, he seemed lost in thought. Reginald wondered idly if the captain were sulking over the scene at lunch, but decided not. The man certainly had nothing to say for himself.

  Already growing bored with life in the country, Reggie tried various conversational gambits but his companion seemed singularly uninterested in on dits, boxing matches, wenching, gaming, and every other interesting topic that was introduced. Having spent much of the afternoon drinking, topped with a bottle and a half of hock with dinner, the Despair of the Davenports was in a surly mood by the time the captain pushed back from the table to leave.

  “You’re a dull dog, Dalton,” he said pugnaciously. “Or perhaps a cow, chewing your cud.”

  Richard raised one eyebrow, his attention finally caught. “Surely ‘bull’ would be more accurate than ‘cow’?”

  “ ‘Gelding’ would be better yet,” Reggie said with an ugly glint.

  Disconcertingly, his quarry laughed with genuine humor. “Come now, Davenport, you disappoint me. Schoolboys make insults about eunuchs. Surely a man of the world like you can do better than that.”

  Volatile as always, Reggie felt a certain reluctant respect for someone so impervious to attack. “What does it take to anger you, Dalton? I can’t believe the Army didn’t teach you something about fighting.”

  Richard smiled. “I’d best not tell you my weaknesses, for you would feel compelled to test them. And then I might have to kill you.”

  Angry again, his cousin spat out, “You and how many friends? There isn’t a man in England I can’t beat in any fair fight, pistols, swords, or fisticuffs. I’ve beaten Jackson himself at his salon.”

  “Ah, yes. That is one of the places where men of fashion play at fighting.”

  “Play?”

  “I don’t know what else to call it. You’re right that I learned something in the Army. Avoid unnecessary battles. But when you fight, fight to win.”

  Dispensing with the formality of a glass, Reggie took a swallow direct from his latest bottle of wine. “I was going to invite you to a mill near Bristol tomorrow, but no doubt you would consider that too much like play.”

  “Alas, yes. I’m a working man and can’t take time for the treat.” Richard made only a token attempt to look disappointed. Really, his cousin was the most unaccountable man, full of idle malice, yet so desperate for company he would extend an invitation to someone he was doing his level best to provoke. It would be no loss to have him away for a day or two.

  Rising from the table, he said with unimpaired good humor, “Enjoy your mill, but don’t put your blunt on the Cornishman. The word is he’s off his form.”

  Reginald was left to stare at the closed door as the captain limped out. Where had the damned man learned who was boxing in Bristol? Shrugging, he reached for a new bottle of wine.

  * * * *

  The evening seemed interminable. Jason looked at her with a slight frown and Jessica shot occasional puzzled glances. Caroline refused to let her aunt catch her eye, excusing herself as early as possible on the grounds of an all-too-real headache.

  In the safety of her room she reached for her lute rather than her night robe. Singing softly, she plucked out many of the old ballads she had sung with Richard earlier in the day, so intent she never saw Jessica open the door.

&n
bsp; I know where I’m going, And I know who’s going with me, I know who I love, and he knows who I’ll marry... She sang the words with the feelings she had been unable to express earlier. Her aunt listened for a few moments, then silently withdrew.

  The clock was striking midnight when Caroline’s songs were done, but she knew that sleep was still out of the question. Instead, she reached for her pen and her blank music paper. It was nearly dawn when she finally closed her burning eyes. One long night was over. There was still a whole lifetime to get through.

  Chapter 11

  The corridor past the guest rooms was still gray in the dawn half-light. Jason walked softly, telling himself it was perfectly logical to go to the stables by this route, and there was no reason to suppose that Jessica would be going out to ride this early. Even though their paths had crossed in the stables for the last three mornings and they had gone riding together, it wasn’t as if they had arranged any of the meetings.

  Nonetheless, he was listening closely enough to hear the muffled curse coming from behind her door. He paused, then tapped gently at the oak panels. Moments later, Jessica opened the door, dressed in her skintight breeches and a white shirt that strained across her breasts.

  “Oh! I thought it would be one of the servants,” she said as she looked up at the master of the house. He smiled at her smoothly, carefully keeping his gaze on her face rather than her all-too-revealing clothes.

  “I heard what sounded uncommonly like a cavalry oath. May I offer any assistance?”

  She smiled “You are exactly what I need. Come in.” Apparently oblivious of the implications, she stood back and let him enter her bedchamber. Walking to the massive four-poster, she waved her hand at the canopy. “There is the problem.”

  Jason looked up and blinked, wondering if it was earlier than he thought. His initial impression was confirmed when the triangular orange patch opened a surprisingly large pink mouth full of needle-sharp teeth and said, “Mrro-o-o—o-wp!”