The Dragon's Bride

by Jo Beverley

  “No.”

  “It never crossed your mind?”

  Ah.

  “I was a girl, Con.” All she seemed to have to offer him was honesty, tarnished though it was. “Yes, I thought of it, but I’d never met him. I’d hardly seen him. He was as mythological to me as a dragon. I sought the position as his assistant with the idea in the back of my mind. But then I learned that he wouldn’t marry anyone until he was sure they were carrying his child, and I could not do that. Which made me see that I could not be intimate with the mad earl before or after marriage. And that was before I saw that bed.”

  “He demanded a trial marriage? Did he think to get a local lady to marry him that way?”

  “The local un-ladies were willing enough.”

  “He would have married any woman carrying his child?”

  “Apparently.”

  “And no one fooled him?”

  “He was mad, Con, not stupid. Any woman had to come here during her courses—and he checked to be sure it was real—and then stay here until she bled again. As you know, there are no male servants other than his valet, who was fanatically devoted.”

  “The old goat.”

  “They came willingly enough, and he gave them twenty guineas when they left. A handsome amount for simple folk. In fact,” she added with a distinct flare of mischief, “some may come up here hoping you’ll be interested, too.”

  “Hell’s hounds! I’ll pay them twenty guineas to go away.”

  “Don’t let word of that out in public.”

  She thought he might laugh, but then he shook his head. “We should progress to the dungeon, I suppose, and get this over with, but I promised de Vere the treat.”

  Con set off down the corridor, hoping it looked like a steady, well-ordered retreat, not the panicked flight it was. He believed her. She’d not seriously contemplated joining the mad earl in that bed, and yet the image haunted him.

  She’d thought of marrying the old earl.

  She was behind him. He sensed her even though she made no sound in her soft slippers—like a memory, or the ghost of a memory.

  She’d only thought of it.

  He’d thought of doing a good many things he was blessed not to have done. Suicide once, even. Only the thought of it.

  He’d contemplated desertion once, too. In the early days before he became hardened to men and animals in agony, to causing men and animals to be in agony. For a few days it had seemed the only sane choice, and he’d planned how to go about it.

  But then they’d come suddenly under attack and he’d fought to survive and to help his comrades survive. Somewhere in the process he’d committed himself to the fight against Napoleon and been able to carry on.

  He’d almost raped a woman once.

  He’d been with a group of officers drinking in a taverna in a Spanish village. It had been not long after battle, though he was damned if he could remember which one or anything else about the place. Blood had been running hot still, and they all wanted a woman.

  Some of the women were willing, but a few were not, and their protests and attempts to escape had seemed amusing. Exciting, even.

  He could look back at it now as if from the outside and wonder how he could have behaved like that, but he also remembered feeling a godlike ecstasy. That the women were his warrior’s due.

  Pressing the struggling, sobbing woman down on a table with the cheers of the men and the wild Spanish music still playing . . .

  His cock had been throbbing, jumping with eagerness and he’d had his flap half undone. Other hands had been helping hold her down.

  But something in his mind had clicked. Some shard of sanity had shot icy reality through him.

  He’d grabbed her up off the table and pushed out of the room saying something about doing this properly. Some had tried to stop him, but he’d fought free into the hot Spanish air and a touch of sanity, the woman still writhing and sobbing in his grasp.

  He’d kept her in his tent all night and sent her off at dawn with some coins. Pausing before leaving, she’d asked, “Do you wish me to say that you can do it, Capitan?”

  She’d thought the rescue was to cover up impotence. He’d managed to hold back wild laughter, and simply said, “Say whatever is easiest for you, señora.”

  He heard days later that she’d spread tales of heroic virility. He supposed she’d meant well, but it had made life damned difficult at times. He’d never spent a whole night with a woman since in case she expected a heroic performance.

  So he could understand that sometimes people did things in a kind of temporary madness, or thought of them. And that consequences, even of well-intentioned acts, were unpredictable.

  And that people were often not what they seemed.

  As they approached the office door he turned to her. “What do you think of Mr. de Vere as secretary?”

  Her brows rose. “It is not for me to make such judgments, my lord.”

  “Drop the servant act, Susan. Do you think he’ll be snoozing, or sitting with his feet up enjoying a book of questionable pictures?”

  “I did, but now I assume not.”

  He opened the door to reveal Race, as expected, at the desk surrounded by stacks of paper and an aura of intense activity. He looked up impatiently and Con could almost see the words Go away coming out of his mouth, as in a satirical cartoon.

  After a moment, however, he put his pen in the standish and stood.

  “The records are in fairly good shape, my lord,” he said, even giving Con the tribute of his title in front of Susan. “But you know, there’s a great deal of money unaccounted for.”

  Ah-ha! Con turned to Susan. “Any idea where it might have gone, Mrs. Kerslake?”

  “No,” said Race. “I mean there’s a lot of money that’s appeared on the books out of nowhere.”

  Con turned back to him with a look. “Smuggling.”

  Race pushed hair off his forehead. “Oh, I suppose so. As I’m from Derbyshire, it doesn’t come first to mind.” He picked up a piece of paper to review it. “It must be a very profitable business.”

  “It is.” Con glanced back at Susan. She had a rather fixed look on her face, as if she’d rather deny that such a thing as smuggling existed. “As the earl’s secretary in the past,” he prompted, “I’m sure you know something about his involvement.”

  The look she flashed at him was almost a glare. “The earl invested in cargoes, yes, my lord. Most people hereabouts do.”

  “And how much profit does a run make?”

  With another irritated glance, she said, “About five times the investment, if all goes smoothly. There are always some runs that fail, of course, creating a total loss.”

  Con saw Race’s eyes widen and said, “Remember this is illegal.”

  “So are a great many interesting things,” Race replied. “Mrs. Kerslake, do you know the amount invested and raised on a good run? I ask only out of fascinated interest, of course.”

  Susan suddenly relaxed and smiled—at Race. A relaxed, friendly smile that made Con grit his teeth.

  She moved toward the desk. “It’s said that a cargo came in down the coast last year with a thousand gallons each of brandy, rum, and gin, and a quarter ton of tobacco. I hear that tobacco can be bought abroad for sixpence a pound and sold here for five times that. Spirits might be a shilling a gallon and six shillings here.”

  Race bent to make quick calculations on paper. “Almost a thousand pounds from an investment of about a hundred and sixty. Lord above.”

  She moved closer to look at his figures. “There are expenses, of course. The ship and captain, payment to the landers, tubmen, batmen, and for use of horses and carts. Everyone will expect a little of the goods to take home, too. On the other hand,” she added, “tea is even more profitable. Ten to one.”

  Race was looking decidedly dazzled. It was the profit, not the person, but Con’s jaw was aching with the need to drag her away from his side.

  “You know a surp
rising amount about it, Mrs. Kerslake,” he said, and saw her remember discretion with a start.

  “Everyone does in these parts.” She moved away from Race, however, which was an improvement.

  Race looked up from his papers. “No wonder the earldom seems to have taken in at least two thousand pounds on top of rents each year.”

  “Has it, by gad?” Con strode to the desk to look at the papers Race had spread in front of him. “Yet according to the records Swann’s sent me, there’s only a couple of thousand in the earldom’s bank.” He looked across the desk. “Any explanation of that, Mrs. Kerslake?”

  “The sixth earl spent a great deal on what interested him, my lord. His antiquities.” She was hiding behind her servant’s manner, but he wasn’t fooled. She was tense with knowledge.

  “ ‘Eye of newt and tail of frog’ being very expensive these days?” Con turned back to Race. “Any idea if there’s any squirreled away?”

  “It’s ‘Eye of newt and toe of frog,’ actually,” Susan interjected. He looked at her and was hard-pressed not to smile at the touch of mischief there—an adult mischief based on wit and wisdom rather than girlish high spirits.

  “Tails may make more sense,” she pointed out, “but toes must bring more profit, frogs having more than one.”

  “Tails would have rarity value, however, since they do not have one once they’re fully grown.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “That would make them a symbol of eternal youth . . . !”

  He picked up her thought. “And if the earl were still alive, I could make a fortune selling him frog’s tails.”

  Con thought they both came to a shocked awareness of relaxation, of memory of past times, simultaneously. She certainly sobered and turned to Race at the same time Con did.

  “Hidden profits?” Con prompted, aware of his secretary’s intrigued interest, damn him.

  “I’ve found none yet, my lord. Not all his incomes and expenditures are clearly itemized, however, and he clearly often dealt in cash. It is possible he spent it all.”

  Surely after being the earl’s secretary for so many years, Susan would know. He challenged her directly. “I presume you don’t know where the extra money is, Mrs. Kerslake?”

  She looked him straight in the eye. “No, my lord.”

  That was the truth.

  “Keep up the search,” he ordered Race. “It will enliven your dull days. And note any records of the purchase price of his peculiarities. That might be the key to my fortune.”

  Susan’s expression turned so perfectly blank he knew she was hiding something. He really must stop thinking her an honest woman. She was beautiful, fascinating, deadly.

  But not honest.

  She’d had years to play with the books here, diverting money at will. She was up against Race now, however, whose chief delight was finding the truths and secrets hidden in records and ledgers.

  Raw from that moment of friendly banter, he had to escape. “I am going to inspect the estate.”

  Then he realized this would leave Susan free to get up to all sorts of mischief. “Mrs. Kerslake, I wish you to work with Mr. de Vere. You are familiar with the earldom’s management.”

  “The torture chamber, my lord?” she reminded him.

  “A thoroughly superfluous addition.” He saw her puzzlement, but wasn’t about to explain. Crag Wyvern was one huge torture chamber when Susan Kerslake was in it, and a trap, too.

  Race was showing absolutely no interest in rack and pincers, so Con left, shutting the door on them.

  Then he turned to go back. Susan and Race, alone together? After a moment he made himself walk away from the door. Perhaps Race could save him from himself.

  A few more days of this new Susan and he might be rolling in the sand with her again, and this time there was nothing to prevent him offering marriage and being caught for life.

  Except, he suddenly thought, a prior commitment.

  Last week he’d been drifting toward offering marriage to Anne Peckworth. Nothing had changed. She was well-bred, well dowered, kind, and gentle. His mother and sisters liked her. She was the perfect wife for him.

  She had another advantage—the reason, in fact, that he’d sought her out. Earlier in the year, a fellow Rogue, Lord Middlethorpe, had been about to offer for Lady Anne when he’d met and married his beautiful wife, Serena. Lady Anne had been led to expect that offer, and been hurt, but she’d behaved beautifully.

  He’d decided that since he seemed to lack the ability to fall in love, he might as well take Francis’s place with Anne, who had a crippled foot and thus didn’t find it easy to attend social events.

  It was rational, reasonable, and yet here, with Susan, he was in danger of losing his grip on that sane decision.

  He went to his room and opened his traveling desk to take out a sheet of paper. After fighting an instinct to hesitate, he wrote a swift letter to Anne Peckworth.

  A gentleman writing to an unmarried lady was tantamount to commitment anyway, but to make all safe he stated clearly that he intended to speak to her father as soon as he returned to Sussex, which he hoped would be in a week or so.

  He did not sand the ink but watched it dry, knowing he was burning his bridges. He was burning bridges between himself and the enemy, however, which was an excellent military tactic.

  Attraction, even love, was not always good. He’d seen men bewitched and entangled by unworthy women, often to their destruction. He would not be one.

  The ink was dry.

  He folded the letter, sealed it, addressed it and scrawled Wyvern across the top to cover the postage. Then he gave it to Diego. “Take this down to Pearce. He’s to get it into the mail immediately. If he has to ride to Honiton or Exeter, so be it. I want it on its way.”

  So that I can’t weaken and snatch it back.

  He saw Diego’s brows rise, but the valet only said, “Yes, my lord.”

  He sat back and considered his defensive position. It was perfect. Now he could resist any weapons Susan brought to bear.

  Chapter Nine

  Susan tried to pay attention to de Vere and the paperwork, but her mind and heart were still with Con. That brief moment of fun had been like a drop of water on parched earth.

  Tantalizing rather than refreshing.

  She could not endure more such encounters. They made her feel like the most fragile shell on the seashore, being worn thinner and thinner with every wave of interaction. She’d be transparent soon, and shatterable with the slightest pressure. She’d end up as sand, swept away with the next tide. . . .

  “Mrs. Kerslake?” De Vere’s voice broke into her thoughts.

  She turned to him and saw his expression—intrigued, but not unkind.

  “Perhaps you could explain how the earl recorded his investment interests. It seems somewhat unclear.”

  She concentrated on simple matters. “He was secretive by nature, Mr. de Vere.”

  He had brought over a chair so she could sit by him, and now asked a series of focused, intelligent questions. She was impressed by how quickly he’d grasped the arcane aspects of the records and by how clearly he understood what was contained in them, including what was implied.

  She was also impressed and worried by his systematic approach. She had been efficient, but not so meticulous. Though de Vere was working with remarkable speed, he was stripping every sheet of paper of its information and organizing it for future reference.

  She was almost sure that there were no details here about smuggling matters, but things might be learned between the lines. Payments were made to the George and Dragon tavern for wine and spirits, for example, which were disguised investments in smuggling. Would de Vere, from Derbyshire, realize that?

  Large sums of money were entered under loan repayments without any record of the loan.

  Also the earl had been inclined to scribble notes to himself on all kinds of matters on the edge of papers, or on scraps that often ended up mixed in with other things.

 
What might de Vere learn that way?

  Might he learn that David was the new Captain Drake? If he did, what might he do with that, as an outsider and a soldier?

  She needed to speak to David, to warn him, even though she knew such a warning was useless. There was nothing he could change, nothing he could do, except perhaps lie low.

  And where was he? She’d sent the message saying he was wanted here. She needed to know the run had gone smoothly, that she could put aside the matter of finding the hidden money.

  She gazed sightlessly at a row of figures. What if it hadn’t gone well? What if David was wounded somewhere and that was why he wasn’t here?

  She made herself be sensible. She’d have received word. Someone would have told her.

  What if no one knew? If her aunt and uncle thought he was staying with friends . . . ?

  She realized that de Vere had asked her the same thing twice. He must think her an addlepated female.

  Trying to speak calmly, she said, “You know, I think my brother would be able to help you more on these matters, Mr. de Vere. I wonder where he is.”

  “Until he comes, perhaps—”

  She rose. “I will go and make sure the message was sent.” Before he could object, she escaped.

  She went to the kitchen and put Mrs. Gorland in charge. She almost ran out as she was, but she disciplined herself and put on her plain, wide hat. She must be Mrs. Kerslake, respectable housekeeper, not Susan Kerslake, who’d tramped free on the hills.

  Who’d gone adventuring with Con Somerford.

  As soon as she was outside Crag Wyvern, her panic faded and she took a deep breath. She’d never liked the Crag, but until today she’d not felt its full constrictive power.

  David was doubtless fine. Merely tired from last night and careless about responding to commands. But she was outside now, and she’d make the most of it.

  The most of her freedom.

  She’d never felt quite like this before, but then, Con Somerford had not been inside Crag Wyvern before. Or not for eleven years.

  She set off down the hill to the inland village of Church Wyvern. For a blessing, the sun was shining from an almost cloudless sky. It had been a dreadful summer, apparently because of the eruption of a volcano last year half a world away. Sweet summer days were scarce, and after last night they could have expected overcast and even rainy weather, but heaven had sent sunshine when she needed it so badly.