The Dragon's Bride

by Jo Beverley

  He seemed a quiet and proper man, but he was creating quite a flutter among the maids with his Spanish ways and his wicked smiles. Thank heavens the two other men Con had brought were living at the stables in the village.

  Sarmiento had clearly been with Con for many years, and seemed both devoted to his master and proud of him. He was certainly ready to talk about him whenever one of the maids asked. Susan couldn’t resist lingering in the kitchen to listen.

  Then the valet turned to her again. “Mistress Kerslake, is the water for the big bath always available?”

  “Yes, Señor Sarmiento. I have ordered the cistern to be kept full, and the fire fed with charcoal. Has the earl not used it yet?”

  “Last night he was perhaps a little overtired. He asked only for the small tub. I will remind him tonight. He seems weighed down by his new responsibilities here, and would benefit from the luxury.”

  She couldn’t resist. “What do you think of Crag Wyvern, señor?”

  He rolled his eyes. “In my native land, dear lady, we often build with the forbidding outside and the sensual garden within, but we have the strong sun that must be hidden from and protected against. Here . . . here where the sun is like skim milk and scarcely warms the earth . . . ?” He shrugged and shook his head.

  But then he said, “Now, Lord Wyvern’s other home, Somerford Court, that is a suitable English home. There the gardens are outside and the rooms look out over distant vistas of the beautiful, green English countryside. People here say that this is not a good summer, that it rains too much. But I . . . I see the green the rain brings, and it is sweet to my eyes and heart.”

  Surely this was safe to talk of. “Somerford Court is on a hill?”

  “On a hill overlooking the valley of a river called Eden. Paradise. In the valley is the village of Hawk in the Vale. An old place, and friendly in the way of old places.” His dark eyes twinkled. “That is to say, they look at a foreigner like me with suspicion, but do not actually throw stones. It is the same in my own village back home. The earl’s close friend, Major Hawkinville, is son of the squire there. A great hero is Major Hawkinville, though he rarely raised a weapon. A warrior of the mind.”

  Susan wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but she thirsted for more of this information.

  “Major George Hawkinville, I assume,” she said. “And the other George? George Vandeimen?”

  His look was startled, and quickly hidden. “Ah. You know about the Georges, Mrs. Kerslake! He is Lord Vandeimen now. In that one, the family name and title is the same, which is not often the case, I understand. His family is all dead. It is a great tragedy. But now he is to marry a very rich woman. That is good, yes? He and my master have not met since Lord Vandeimen left the army, so I only know what I hear in the village.”

  “They haven’t met?” She knew immediately that she’d stepped over the line she’d drawn for herself, but she had to know. “Lord Vandeimen has been out of the country?”

  “No, señora. He returned to England in February, but has spent his time in London.”

  “What of Major Hawkinville?”

  “He is with the army still. Even after battle and victory there remains a great deal for the Quartermaster-General’s Department to do.”

  “It would be better if he were in England, though, would it not?”

  Susan knew she was showing more personal interest than was wise, but she fretted about Con. If there was some problem with Lord Vandeimen, then this other friend would help. The Rogues did not seem to have penetrated the shell, and the Georges—the triumvirate—were lifelong friends.

  “Lord Vandeimen visited his estate just before we left, señora,” Sarmiento said. “He was in the company of the rich woman who is to be his wife. He will now be able to restore Steynings to its former state. But alas, we had to come here before there was chance of a meeting.”

  Susan realized that she was being told these things deliberately. Lord Vandeimen returned to his home and Con moved to Devon? There’d been no particular reason for him to come here now. And he’d sent no word.

  It had been an impulse? A sudden need to escape?

  She didn’t need more concerns, more twists in the tangle, but she couldn’t not care.

  “And the Rogues?” she asked.

  The valet’s eyes lit. “Ah, the Rogues! ¡Qué hombres más admirables! We spent much time with some of them in the winter.” He shivered dramatically, but still smiled. “The hunting. In what they called the Shires. They chase around all day after a fox. Why a fox, I ask? It cannot be eaten. But the English, they spend a fortune on horses to chase a fox. They spend another fortune protecting the fox so it can be chased. They are mad, the English, but the Rogues, they are magnificent. And after that we went to London, also with the Rogues. My master, he seemed happy then, but underneath is still the sadness.”

  “Lord Darius?”

  She’d startled him again. “He has told you of Lord Dare?”

  Did Con speak so little of something that obviously mattered so much to him?

  Sarmiento said, “A happy soul, Lord Dare, and worth mourning, but the darkness is not really Lord Dare, señora. It is war. War, she is like a fire that men walk through. As long as they do not see how hot it is, it does not burn. But then,” he added with an eloquent gesture, “if that changes . . .”

  Susan swallowed. She didn’t want to know this. She didn’t want to know that Con was suffering when there was nothing she could do. “And Lady Anne?”

  “Lady Anne?” He seemed confused for a moment, but then said, “Ah. So kind and pretty.”

  What she wanted to know was whether Lady Anne was helping Con deal with his devils, but to ask would be to go too far. She excused herself and went to deal with a question about peas, knowing she should force all she’d learned out of her mind.

  It was impossible.

  Con was at outs with the Georges? Because they were both connected to the war?

  He was still close to the Rogues, but they didn’t seem to be helping him.

  It particularly worried her that he appeared to have come here expressly to avoid Lord Vandeimen.

  She went into the pantry to check that the silver had been polished properly. “Stop it!” she muttered, pushing a drawer closed. She was powerless, and going around and around these things was likely to drive her mad.

  Diddy came in. “The curate’s here, ma’am.”

  Susan turned to go, but Diddy added, “The earl’s got him. Taken him up to the Wyvern rooms. Wish I could see Mr. Rufflestowe’s face when he sees that lot!”

  So did Susan, but it reminded her of the fountain. She sent for Con’s men, Pearce and White, and asked them to look at it to see how it could be taken apart. White was a mere child, pale and nervy, but Pearce was a substantial man who might be able to do the job. She told him to hire more hands from the villages if needed.

  Then she set out to search Crag Wyvern for clever hiding places. Con, as far as she knew, was still upstairs with Mr. Rufflestowe, and de Vere was in the office, presumably engrossed. If the gold was hidden in there it would be difficult to find. The man seemed unlikely to leave the room!

  That had been one of the places she’d searched thoroughly, however, and it was hard to imagine a large concealed compartment that she hadn’t found.

  Thought of de Vere made her be systematic in her search rather than using her usual method—depending on inspiration. She considered where to start.

  The great hall was an unlikely spot, since it was frequently used as a passageway. The kitchens and servants’ areas could never reliably be private, and she’d never known the earl to go there.

  Very well, on the ground floor that left the dining room, breakfast room, drawing room, and library.

  She went first to the dining room, pushing aside all memory of the previous night. She had searched this room—she had searched everywhere—but now she tried to find clever, concealed hiding places.

  The plain painted walls made t
his easier. It was impossible that there was a secret compartment behind them that could be accessed at will. She checked the dark oak floor and the plain ceiling and reached the same conclusion. There was an ornate plaster cornice but no other decoration, and she couldn’t see how the cornice could disguise any useful opening.

  Determined to be meticulous, she made her eyes travel the room again, seeking out anything suspicious. She didn’t find it, but when her eyes passed over the glass-paned doors into the garden she wondered if the gold was hidden out there.

  But no. She’d rarely seen the earl go there, either. He’d preferred to move around the house using the outer corridors. She’d never thought of it before, but it had been as if even the enclosed openness of the garden had been too much for his irrational fear.

  Even if he’d been in the habit of sneaking out to dig and bury at night, the garden had been under Mrs. Lane’s assiduous care. She would surely have noticed the ground being disturbed.

  Through a bush she could see Pearce over by the fountain. She resisted the distraction of going to see what he thought.

  She moved on to the breakfast room, which with its monastic simplicity was easy to cross off the list. When she went back into the corridor, she realized that she had to consider the corridors themselves. But the outer walls were not of medieval thickness, and the inner walls were even thinner unless there was some very skillful disguise work somewhere.

  She’d leave them for last.

  She followed the corridors to the great hall, however, scrutinizing the surfaces all around, and then went on to the drawing room. Having been carved out of one end of the hall, it alone did not have doors into the garden. There was only one window, and the room was poorly lit during the day.

  With paneled walls set with silk wallpaper, and elaborate plasterwork in the ceiling, it was a promising site for a hiding place, but it was only five years old, and she had been involved in some of its design.

  She was almost certain that no hiding place of any substance could have been built in. She made her eye seek for any thickening, any unusual crack or line. . . .

  “Looking for something?”

  She spun around to see Con standing in the doorway watching her.

  “Cobwebs,” she said hastily. “It’s one of my housekeeperly duties.”

  “Poor spiders. Mr. Rufflestowe is suitably shocked by the books and manuscripts, and thoroughly enjoying himself. I’ve left him to it. How are we doing with the fountain?”

  We.

  She put that aside. “I’ve set your men to the task. You could go and discuss it with them.”

  “Why don’t we go together?”

  Oh, no. She glanced at the fob watch dangling from her high belt, though there was no duty hovering. “I am needed in the kitchens, my lord.”

  She expected some further argument but he merely said, “Very well,” and walked out.

  She blew out a breath, accepting that there was regret in her as well as relief. She wanted to spend time with Con, but she was determined to be sensible, which meant she must avoid him whenever possible.

  Since the drawing room had only the one door out into the great hall, she waited a few minutes before cautiously leaving.

  Con wasn’t lurking.

  She was a little disappointed about that, too.

  Truly, she was in a perilous state of mind, and the sooner she was away from here the better.

  Having said she was needed in the kitchens, she felt obliged to go there. As she crossed the hall, however, she glanced out of a window, and saw Con in the garden down to his shirtsleeves, helping his men raise the dragon off its unwilling bride.

  It would appear that the parts of the fountain were separate, but it did look strangely as if they were forcing the monster off the woman. Rescuing her.

  She changed direction and ran up the circular stairs and along the corridor to the nearest room. She sneaked up to the window to watch.

  The dragon was lying on the ground now, on a path, thank heavens, not on a bed of plants, but the woman still sprawled there. Free of water and rapist, she looked embarrassingly rapturous.

  Were fear and rapture so close? Was rapture from the same root as rape? She must look that up. It certainly would cast a strange light on things.

  Con leaped agilely onto the stone rim of the fountain and extended a hand for some tool. He’d unfastened his cuffs and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He’d taken off his cravat too, so his shirt was open at the neck.

  He looked stunningly loosened, vulnerable, powerful, approachable. . . .

  She breathed deeply as she watched him begin to work on something, a bolt probably, to release the figure.

  Susan realized her hand was tight on the silk curtains—black silk embroidered with dragons. She was in the Chinese bedroom—the room where Con had slept the first night. This was the same window from which Con had watched her that first morning.

  Yesterday morning. A lifetime in a day.

  She should go. She shouldn’t expose herself to this, and she certainly shouldn’t let him see her here, watching him as he had watched her.

  But she only eased back slightly. He seemed unlikely to look up. He was intent on his task, as if freeing the bronze figure was crucial to him.

  Of course. In Spain he had almost raped a woman. Now he was freeing one. She ached for his obvious anguish, but rejoiced over it too. It must be easy for soldiers to grow numb to violence, but he hadn’t.

  Of course he hadn’t. He was Con.

  She realized she was crushing the precious curtain and carefully unclenched her hand, then smoothed it out. These Chinese dragons were a symbol of spirit and joy, but Con didn’t have a Chinese dragon on his chest. He’d chosen a Saint George dragon, the evil oppressor who demanded the innocent as tribute. The dragon like the one in the fountain that violated all that was pure and good.

  Why?

  Why, when he’d always wanted to be Saint George?

  She watched him toss the tool back to young White, then begin to lever the figure up off the base, legs braced, forearms taut with muscle. He wasn’t a heavy man, but he was all muscle.

  She realized she was licking her dry lips.

  The big man, Pearce, used a thick stick to help, and then grabbed the woman’s spread ankles so that she could be lifted over the side and onto the ground beside her slain tormentor.

  Con threw his jacket over her.

  Susan stepped back, taking what seemed to be her first deep breath in minutes. Even if Con had a dragon on his chest, he was still the heroic George. He could never be anything else.

  And she must wish him happy with his chosen bride.

  She couldn’t resist one last temptation, however.

  She left the room and went back downstairs to the library, hoping that neither Rufflestowe nor de Vere was there. She had every right to enter, but guilty conscience makes an innocuous task suspect, and she planned to check on Con’s beloved.

  The place was somnolently empty. Almost dormant, in fact.

  Though full of books the library had been little used. The earl had kept his favorite books in his room like a squirrel hoarding nuts. The library had been given a thorough cleaning recently, but it had a sad air of neglect.

  It contained a reasonably recent Peerage, however, and she took it down and opened it on the table.

  Lady Anne Peckworth . . .

  She soon had the entry. Middle of three daughters of the Duke of Arran. She was twenty-one years old, and both her younger and older sisters were married when this book was compiled two years before.

  She frowned slightly, wondering why Lady Anne was still on the shelf. Idiotic to fret whether she was worthy of Con—he’d made his choice—but Susan did. He must have the best, a sterling woman who adored him. The prosaic details on the page revealed nothing about Lady Anne’s qualities, however, or about her feelings.

  How could she not adore Con?

  Was it a long-standing engagement, delayed by the
war? But in that case they would surely have married as soon as possible, not still be unwed nearly a year after Waterloo.

  No matter how long she looked at the closely printed page, it offered no more enlightenment. She closed the heavy book, creating a flurry of paper dust, and tried to close her pointless and intrusive curiosity. All the same, she was thinking that if she left Crag Wyvern and went a-traveling, she could go to Lea Park and investigate Lady Anne. If she wasn’t worthy of Con, she could . . .

  What? Murder her?

  With a wry laugh, she placed the book back on the shelf. This was no more her business than was the good government of India.

  She turned to leave the room, then realized that she might as well search for the gold.

  She’d recently supervised the spring cleaning, and every book had been taken out and wiped over; every shelf had been dusted. She had surreptitiously checked at the time for false compartments behind the books.

  She went over to the window seat and opened it to check it again. Of course, the space inside was still the right size for the external dimensions.

  She straightened, hands on hips and frustrated. Where the devil would the demented earl have hidden his gold? Probably closer to the Wyvern rooms, but that meant the whole upper floor, including the corridors, and the hidey-hole could have been built before she was born, perhaps even into the very fabric of the Crag.

  Searching for it was beginning to look like a labor of Hercules.

  She glanced out into the garden again, wondering how the fountain project was going. And yes, she admitted, hoping for another glimpse of Con. From the ground level she didn’t have a clear view, but it looked as if Con and the men had gone.

  Curious, she opened the doors into the courtyard and went out.

  Yes, they’d definitely gone. She walked to the center and found that the dragon and the maiden had been taken away, but the chain remained, still connected to the rock at one end, the other end trailing limply into the dry basin. She wondered idly what Con would do with the two bronze figures. She almost felt the bride should have a decent burial.

  All that remained was the rock in the middle upon which the bride had lain, and a simple metal pipe sticking up at one side where it had fed into the dragon. She wondered if they could still have the music of the fountain without the figures. The water would just splash onto the rock.