The Dragon's Bride

by Jo Beverley

  He’d last seen Nicholas in London a few months back when Francis had married his beautiful, scandalous wife. All the available Rogues had gathered to launch her into society. Being in hiding, he’d avoided Nicholas, who tended to notice such things.

  The devil finds work for idle minds, so he’d kept his mind busy. He’d even gone to Ireland for another Rogue’s wedding.

  But in the end, the dark had crept in, and he’d begun to avoid those who knew him well. He’d sent chatty replies to letters from Hawk, who was abroad. He’d sent brief ones to various Rogues, who were busy with their own affairs. But he’d ignored Van’s letters, because Van was too likely to seek him out.

  He’d known Van had to be struggling with his own darkness, but he’d been too deep in his own hole to reach out to a friend.

  Did he deserve to reach out to Nicholas?

  He made good time and was soon looking at the brick house that was Nicholas’s country home.

  Redoaks was a simple place, but something about the proportions, the gardens, and the oak trees that gave it its name, all spoke of the kind of rightness that Nicholas would choose.

  Quite a contrast to Crag Wyvern.

  He turned his horse into the short drive, wondering what exactly he was going to say, but knowing that it didn’t matter.

  The door opened before he reached it, and Nicholas came out in an open-necked shirt and loose pantaloons, his dark blond hair obviously not cut for fashion. “Con! A surprise, but a delightful one.”

  He looked relaxed and welcome as a clear spring—which made Con aware that he was remarkably thirsty. He swung off the horse. “I’m at Crag Wyvern. You know I inherited the earldom?”

  “Yes, of course. An interesting encumbrance, I’d think.”

  “That just about sums it up, yes.” Con was smiling without any clear reason to, except that he was glad he’d made this journey.

  A groom came running around from the back of the house and took the horse, and Nicholas led the way into a square hall painted a clear green and containing two pots of hyacinth. The sweet perfume of wax polish and blossoms made Con think of Somerford Court.

  “It’s what? About fifteen miles?” Nicholas asked.

  “A little less, I think. This was an impulse, though if you’d ever visited Crag Wyvern, you’d know the impulse to go somewhere else is persistent.”

  Nicholas laughed. “I’ve known many places like that. I did look up a picture of it in a book. It was depicted suitably surrounded with dark clouds and stormy sea and looked rather like something dreamed up by Monk Lewis.”

  “Oh, a mere novelist could not do it justice. To create Crag Wyvern, you’d have to be completely mad. It runs in the blood.”

  He saw Nicholas give him a quick look as they went into a room that was probably called the drawing room, but which had a coziness that rejected such a formal term.

  Of course there were books: books in bookcases, in small piles on tables, and three waiting on chairs. Sewing lay on one chair arm, and a chess table invited. Con wandered over, attracted by the unusual pieces, and saw they were some Indian design with elephants instead of horses.

  “Metal,” Nicholas said. “Very practical with little fingers around.”

  Con saw then that there were toys around the room, including a collection of dolls and carved animals set in a circle around a small lace cap.

  “Guarding it, of course. It is currently Arabel’s most precious possession. She and Eleanor are out, so you’ll have to put up with crude masculine hospitality. What would you like?”

  “Cider?”

  “Of course.” Nicholas went to the door and gave instructions.

  Con put his hat, gloves, and crop on a table, feeling heavily overdressed. After a moment he stripped off his jacket and cravat and opened his shirt. When Nicholas returned, Con asked, “Why the devil do we men dress in so many clothes in May?”

  “In recompense for demanding that women wear corsets.”

  “Do we demand that?”

  “But surely they wouldn’t ask that of themselves?” But Nicholas’s smile pointed to most follies being self-imposed, which pretty well fit Con’s thinking at the moment.

  Nicholas would probably not ask any direct questions. It wasn’t his way. Con, however, wasn’t quite sure what he had come to talk to Nicholas about.

  The Crag. Susan. Lady Anne. Dare. Gifford. Smuggling. Inheritance . . .

  Inheritance was the blast that had blown him here, but it was all tangled with the rest of it.

  The cider came in a sweating earthenware jug, accompanied by glass tankards. Nicholas filled both and gave one to Con.

  At first taste, Con let out sigh of satisfaction. At second, he said, “This is strong stuff.”

  “Home brew,” Nicholas said. “If you’re not ready to tell me your secrets now, you will be in a while.”

  Con sat in a chair and took another deep draft. “I suppose I wouldn’t just be dropping by.”

  Nicholas sat opposite with his distinctive lazy elegance. He never looked as if he thought about movement at all, and he doubtless didn’t, but his body didn’t seem able to arrange itself in awkward lines. “Dare?” he guessed.

  Typical of Nicholas to hit the spot. Or one of them.

  “It’s like a nagging tooth,” Con admitted. “Not quite bad enough to drive one to the dentist, but perpetually stealing comfort and rest. It makes no sense. It wasn’t my fault. But I can’t close the door on it. If only we’d found his body.”

  “His mother’s the same way, poor woman. She has this obsession at the moment about having the whole British army tattooed to make identification of bodies easier. I gather you are to blame for that.”

  “God. I did mention our tattoos, that we’d had them done for that reason. Careless of me.”

  “You couldn’t expect her to cling to it, and it gives her a purpose of sorts.” Nicholas took another drink. “I don’t suppose Crag Wyvern helps. I know you never wanted the earldom.”

  Con shrugged. “Once Fred died, it was bound to happen one day. I had reason to hope it would be a long time, though. The mad earl was only fifty. The damned man killed himself with a potion supposed to increase longevity.”

  Nicholas laughed and demanded details, so Con told him about the sanctum and bedroom—the dried phalluses were a big hit—and what he knew of the mad earl’s eccentric ways.

  “I wouldn’t mind a look at those books and manuscripts, you know. I’m a collector.”

  “Of alchemical absurdities?”

  “Of alchemical curiosities, among other things.”

  “You just want the dried phalluses. Slowing down in old age, are you?”

  “Creaking and groaning. So, is that the worst of Crag Wyvern?”

  Con thought of the fountain, and Susan, the gold, and Susan, and the bath, and Susan, but didn’t know where to start, or even if he wanted Nicholas’s clear eye on these matters at all. He’d come to talk about the inheritance.

  “I’m presented with a dilemma,” he said, and gave Nicholas the bare bones of Lady Belle’s letter.

  “What an interesting family you have, to be sure.”

  “She’s hardly family.”

  “She’s Countess of Wyvern, after a fashion. I suspect it would be quite hard to prove that she wasn’t the woman in Guernsey if she stood firm about it.”

  Con groaned. “That’s all I need—Lady Belle in residence in Crag Wyvern. Thank God she took it into her head to sail off in pursuit of Mel.”

  “You could probably pull some administrative strings to see that she and this Melchisedeck Clyst get good treatment in Australia. Wonderful name, by the way. I wonder if Eleanor would agree to naming our firstborn son that.”

  “Probably not.”

  Nicholas laughed. “True.”

  Con was thinking about what Nicholas had said, however. “If they were treated well, they might stay after Mel’s seven years are up. I suspect there’s scope for a man of his abilities in a raw l
and like that. But what do I do if she insists her son is the true earl?”

  “You have that letter. It should blow her case sky-high. A foolish woman.”

  “Apart from the letter, however, it could stick.”

  “Ah,” Nicholas said, and drained his tankard. Trust him to see the possibilities immediately. He rose to refill both tankards. “You dislike being Earl of Wyvern so much?”

  “And more.”

  Nicholas sat down again. “What a very intriguing idea. Deliciously Roguish, in fact. It’s a shame Stephen isn’t here with his legal wisdom, but I can’t see why it shouldn’t prevail. It would create quite a storm in society, and a devil of a lot of talk.”

  “I believe I can handle that. It would be a falsehood, however. I may not feel strong allegiance to the Devonish Somerfords, but it goes against the code to put a complete cuckoo in the nest. The whole damn lot will probably come back to haunt me.”

  “Perhaps they can only haunt Crag Wyvern. Stay away, and you should be safe.”

  Con looked at his friend. “You really don’t see anything wrong about it?”

  “I like to look at consequences not conventions. Who suffers? The Demented Devonish Somerfords, perhaps, but they died out without force from you. Who gains? You. This David Kerslake. The local people who will have a resident lord. The smugglers who will have a great deal of security. Is he able to be a good Earl of Wyvern, do you think?”

  Con considered it. “Yes. He’s somewhat brash and overconfident, but then, he’s only twenty-four and hasn’t been knocked about enough to age quickly. I’d say he is sound. He’s certainly bright and hardworking enough.”

  “Lord above, get on with it! How many peers of the realm could be described that way?”

  Con shook his head. “You make it sound easy. It’s possible he won’t agree.” He was going to have to mention Susan. “His sister is my housekeeper. That letter was sent to her. Before she gave it to me, she’d talked to him, and he wants no part of a fraud.”

  “To his credit, but he must be persuaded. We don’t always get to do just as we like. How would it be if I return with you? I can’t resist poking my fingers into such a delicious affair, and I truly would like first pick at the arcane collection.”

  “I’d like nothing more, but it’s an oppressive place. I think it truly can turn people mad.”

  “If I was going to be driven mad by places, it would have happened long since. Ah,” he added, and rose before Con had heard the footsteps and the childish babble.

  A moment later, Eleanor Delaney entered wearing a sprigged gown and a wide, sun-shielding hat tied with emerald ribbons. As always, she looked ordinary, sensible, and very attractive. She was carrying her daughter in her arms, but she put her down as she said, “Con, how lovely. Nicholas said that you would probably ride over as soon as you visited Devon.”

  Con glanced at his friend, but Nicholas’s attention was on his daughter.

  Arabel, in a copy of her mother’s outfit except trimmed with pink, had toddled rapidly to fling herself at her father, to be swept up and kissed. Then and only then did she look around and give Con a wide smile.

  “Crag Wyvern,” Nicholas said to Eleanor, “is apparently full of arcane books and manuscripts.”

  Eleanor groaned.

  “You wouldn’t want me to miss an opportunity like that, my love. You and Arabel can come too—”

  “No!” It escaped Con, embarrassing him, but he went on, “Truly, Nick, it’s an unhealthy place.”

  “The air?” Eleanor asked.

  “The atmosphere.”

  Arabel wriggled to be put down, so Nicholas did, extracting her from her hat, which had fallen down her back and was threatening to strangle her with the ribbons. “Very well. I’ll go over by myself.”

  “But not tonight,” Eleanor said firmly. “We’re promised to the Stottfords.”

  “So we are. Can you stay, Con? I’m sure they wouldn’t mind an extra guest, especially a temporarily eligible earl.”

  “ ’Lo!”

  Con looked down to see Arabel, now with the lace cap perched on her head, greeting him, he thought. “Hello.”

  She raised her arms, and somewhat hesitantly he picked her up. He wasn’t sure he’d ever picked up a young child before. She seemed to be a professional, however, and settled herself, firm and wholesome, on his arm.

  “Temporarily?” Eleanor asked. “Are you about to be married, Con? It’s about time. It must be, oh, at least a month since we’ve had a Rogue wedding.”

  “Archness does not become you, my dear,” Nicholas remarked. “It would be best to tie all the Rogues up before they wreak more havoc.”

  Con had suddenly remembered Lady Anne, however. He should tell Nicholas that he intended to marry there, to tidy up a bit of Roguish mess. But the words stuck. They stuck because he couldn’t stop thinking of Susan.

  But he’d sent that letter.

  He looked at the pretty child with the chestnut curls who was exploring his shirt and skin with small, soft hands, and the idea of marriage, of children, became appealing in its own right.

  Susan’s children . . .

  “Con? Can you stay the night?” Eleanor asked.

  He walked over and returned her distracting daughter to her. “Tempting, but I’d better ride back. I made no arrangement to be away.”

  “We could send a groom with a message.”

  “If he can ride over, so can I.” Con wasn’t sure why he was so insistent on returning. In part, he knew, he wasn’t quite ready for a full-blown exposure to normal people, but he was also anxious to return, and worried about what might happen in his absence.

  Susan might disappear.

  He had no right to chain her, but he could not bear to lose her yet.

  He picked up his belongings, saying, “You’ll come over tomorrow?”

  “I won’t be denied.”

  “Excellent. And stay as long as you want. It’s just possible you will have an antidotal effect on the place. You can have the Chinese rooms. I’m sure rampaging, fire-breathing dragons have no effect on you.”

  “Chinese dragons? I don’t fear them. The scales of the dragon, the Chinese say, are nine times nine in total, and thus the perfect lucky number. It brings storms, but also good spirits, health, and longevity.”

  “Does it, by gad? I wonder if my mad relative knew that? I’ll go odds he didn’t or he’d have used those rooms himself!”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Con arrived home in the late afternoon, feeling better for time away from the Crag. Feeling better, too, for contact with Nicholas, Eleanor, and their child.

  There was such an aura of sanity and good health around them, and yet both Nicholas and Eleanor had been through troubles. They’d not let the darkness drown them, however. They’d fought back, and fought for each other.

  He rode into the Crag Wyvern stables at the bottom of the hill rather than riding up and letting a groom bring the horse back down. Delaying his return, he supposed.

  He needed time to think.

  He’d had hours of riding to think, but had let them wash his mind blank. Astonishingly, he felt better for it. A clean slate.

  He chatted to the grooms, noting their watchful eyes. He was key to their lives, and what they really needed was a sane earl in more or less permanent residence. Guests would be especially nice, bringing their own servants for company, and paying generous vails for service.

  He left the stables, but instead of heading straight up the hill he turned back to the village and walked to the church. It was not called Saint George’s, but Saint Edmund’s. Of course it had been here long before the first earl’s supposed adventure with a dragon.

  He walked up the short path and into the cool interior, which was blessedly deserted.

  He’d remembered that there were monuments to the previous earls here. The first earl had a carved marble memorial in front of the altar. Typical grandiosity. And the man had started life as a simple country
gentleman. Find favor with a king, then marry an heiress, and here he was in stone robes and lace, his adoring family depicted in miniature all around him.

  “Remember, earl, that thou art dust,” Con murmured, “and unto dust thou shalt return.”

  Perhaps it wasn’t so outrageous that the earldom return into a bloodline of gentry and yeomen. He seemed to remember that back in Tudor times the Somerfords had been only farmers.

  He found the various memorials to the next five earls, but had to go outside in search of the mad earl. The sixth earl had neglected to make provision for his burial, and when Con had been asked for instructions he’d simply told Swann to arrange a suitable grave.

  The suitable grave was a box tomb with scriptures engraved on all sides. Reading them, Con thought that the vicar and various others might have gained considerable satisfaction from encasing the old madman inside them.

  For we must needs die, and are as water spilt upon the ground. II Samuel 14:14

  And the great dragon was cast out. Revelation 12:9

  Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. Galatians 6:7

  Thou hast shown thy people hard things: thou hast made us to drink the wine of astonishment. Psalms 60:3

  The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. Psalms 111:10

  On the top it recorded that James Burleigh Somerford, Earl of Wyvern, had lived from 1766 to 1816 and had passed into the next life dependent on the infinite mercy of the Lord.

  Another clever turn of phrase.

  Con looked around the pleasant graveyard, which was swept with spring flowers, and overhung by generous trees. A sweet resting place, but not his. Strange. Even in the dusty heat of Spain he’d not felt such homesickness for Hawk in the Vale and Somerford Court as he felt here in this equally wholesome place.

  Was he contemplating chicanery simply to rid himself of a burden?