Darling Beast

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  He closed the door gently behind him.

  “Well, bollocks,” Makepeace said blankly.

  Apollo couldn’t help but agree.

  “IS WANTONISH A real word?” Lily asked Maude several days later.

  She sat at the kitchen-cum-dining-room table while Maude hung their washing next to the fireplace.

  “Wantonish,” Maude said, rolling the word around her mouth. She shook her head decisively as she twitched one of Indio’s shirts into place over the drying rack. “No, never heard of it.”

  Damn! Lily pouted down at the play she was writing, A Wastrel Reform’d. Wantonish was such a wonderful W word—and she really needed more of those. “Well, does it matter if ’tisn’t a real word? William Shakespeare devised all sorts of new words, didn’t he?”

  Maude gave her a look. “You’re right clever, hinney, but you’re no Shakespeare.”

  “Hmm.” Lily bent back to her play. Wantonish sounded like a perfectly lovely word to her—quite sly and suggestive, rather like the heroine of her play. Just because no one had thought of the word before now didn’t seem like a good enough reason not to use it.

  She dipped her quill in the inkpot and wrote another line: “A Wastrel might indeed be wantonish but he’d surely not be wastefulish as well.”

  Lily cocked her head, eyeing the drying ink. Hmmm. Two imaginary words in one line. Best not tell Maude.

  Someone knocked on the theater door.

  Both Lily and Maude paused and stared at the door, because that had never happened before. Granted, they’d lived at the theater for less than a sennight, but still. It wasn’t the sort of place most people happened by.

  Lily frowned. “Where’s Indio?”

  Maude shrugged. “Went out to play right after luncheon.”

  “I told him to stay close,” Lily muttered, feeling a faint twinge of apprehension. She’d walked around to Mr. Harte’s rooms the day after she’d met Indio’s “monster,” but the man had been ridiculously adamant that the hulking brute couldn’t be moved from the garden. None of Lily’s well-reasoned arguments had persuaded the stubborn man and in the end she’d been forced to come away again, quite unsatisfied. Fortunately the mute hadn’t ventured near the ruined theater since. Unfortunately Indio had acquired a strange fascination with him. Several times the boy had disappeared with Daffodil into the garden, despite Lily’s dire threats regarding pudding and little boys who didn’t mind their mothers.

  She sighed as she rose to get the door. She was going to have to speak to Indio again about his “monster”—always assuming her son emerged from the garden.

  Lily pulled open the door to find a man dressed in a violet suit standing without, his back to her as he surveyed the garden.

  He turned and she was dazzled by his alarming prettiness. He had bright-blue eyes, long chocolate lashes, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and a soft, curving mouth that she really wasn’t envious of. And to top it all off—as if to prove Providence really, truly wasn’t fair—he had guinea-gold hair, smooth and curling perfectly.

  When Lily had been a very small girl she’d prayed every night for golden hair.

  She blinked now. “Erm… yes?”

  He smiled. Lethally. “Have I the pleasure to address the illustrious Robin Goodfellow?”

  Lily straightened and raised her chin, employing her own smile—which, she had on good authority, could be quite devastating. Lily Stump might occasionally have bad posture, might have hair that wasn’t gold and sometimes wasn’t perfectly arranged, might in the dark of night have fears and self-doubts, but Robin Goodfellow had none of those things. Robin Goodfellow was a very popular actress who was beloved by all of London.

  And she knew it.

  So Robin Goodfellow smiled with just the right amount of impishness at the very pretty man—and by God made him blink.

  “You do indeed,” she said throatily.

  A spark of admiration lit within his gorgeous blue eyes. “Ah. Then may I introduce myself? I am Valentine Napier, Duke of Montgomery. I was informed by Mr. Harte that you resided here and I thought to make your acquaintance.”

  He swept the lace-trimmed black tricorn from his head and bowed low, holding his stick in the other hand.

  Behind her, something clattered.

  Lily didn’t turn to see what Maude had dropped. Instead she inclined her head coquettishly and dipped into a curtsy. “I’m most pleased to meet you, Your Grace. Won’t you take a dish of tea with me?”

  “I’d be honored, ma’am.”

  Lily pivoted and exchanged a significant look with Maude. They hadn’t planned for such a contingency, but Maude was an old hand in the theater and knew well the art of a false facade. “It’s such a lovely day. We’ll take our tea in the garden, Maude.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Maude said, immediately assuming the mask of a perfect servant.

  When Lily looked back, the duke was eyeing her speculatively. “Isn’t it a bit cold for tea outside?”

  She didn’t so much as narrow her eyes. He knew damned well why she wouldn’t let him in the wretched theater—she wasn’t about to parade her lowered state of affairs before him.

  “La, Your Grace, but I like the fresh air. Of course should you prefer a stuffy indoor setting—”

  “No, no,” he demurred, a gleam in his eye.

  She’d scored that point and well he knew it. But he seemed to take the setback in good humor. He stepped aside as Maude hurried out with two chairs—mismatched, of course, but Lily knew better than to apologize. To show any sort of weakness to a man like the duke was as ill-advised as a mouse’s bolting in front of a waiting cat.

  He gestured gallantly to a seat and she settled herself gracefully, watching as he took his own chair. The duke moved with a sort of lazy elegance that, she thought, belied how dangerous he might be.

  He glanced around at the devastated garden. “It’s a rather macabre spot, don’t you find?”

  “Not at all, Your Grace,” Lily lied. Surely he didn’t think he’d catch her out with such a mundane snare? “The atmosphere of the garden is terribly mysterious. I find it altogether charming—and a wonderful influence for my stagecraft. An actress must always find inspiration for herself and her art.”

  “I’m gratified to hear you say so,” the duke replied smoothly, “for as you know, I am now part owner of Harte’s Folly.” She must’ve given herself away somehow—a slight, involuntary movement or a widening of the eyes—for he leaned forward. “Ah, you didn’t know.”

  Wretched creature. She made herself relax. “La, I’m not apprised of every little business dealing with the garden, Your Grace.”

  “Of course not,” he murmured as Maude came out with a small footstool. She set it between them and disappeared back into the theater. The duke cocked an eyebrow at the plain wooden footstool and addressed it. “But this ‘little business dealing’ does put me in the position of your”—he cleared his throat delicately and looked up at her—“employer.”

  Maude returned with a tray of tea at that moment, saving Lily from an ill-conceived reply.

  Lily smiled as Maude set down the tray and poured tea for them both. Maude handed her the dish of tea with a question in her eyes. Lily held her gaze and murmured her thanks, signaling that she wasn’t in need of help.

  The maidservant gave a quiet huff and left.

  “She’s very loyal, isn’t she?” the duke observed.

  Lily took a sip of the tea. It was weak—Maude must’ve used the last of the good tea leaves—but hot. “Aren’t all good servants loyal, Your Grace?”

  He cocked his head as if seriously considering her comment, before replying decisively. “Not necessarily. A servant can serve quite adequately—even superbly—without any loyalty to his master at all.” He smiled, quick and mercurial. “As long, of course, as the master has fitted the servant with a proper bit between his teeth.”

  Lily repressed a shiver. What a very loathsome image. But then aristocrats weren’t l
ike other people. They played with the lives of ordinary folk as easily as Indio poked a stick into an ant’s nest, never considering the destruction they caused.

  “I find I don’t much like the thought of bits,” Lily murmured.

  “No?” he asked. “Would you allow horses to run free?”

  “People aren’t horses.”

  “No, but servants are quite close,” he retorted. “Both servants and horses live to serve their master—or at least they should do. Otherwise they’re quite useless and need to be put down.”

  She stared at him, watching for the twinkle of the eye, the twitch of the lip, to indicate he jested.

  His countenance was pleasant but grave.

  Was he jesting?

  He took a sip of tea, watching her. “Don’t you think so, Miss Goodfellow?”

  “No, Your Grace,” she said sweetly, “I do not.”

  At that his wide lips did break into a smile—beautiful and corrupt. “You speak your mind, ma’am. How refreshing. Tell me, have you a protector?”

  Oh, dear God, she’d rather bed a snake. Not to mention the insultingly frank way he’d made his proposition.

  She smiled again—though it was becoming harder and harder to keep her expression polite. “Your Grace flatters me with his attention, but I have no wish for a protector.”

  “Don’t you?” He let his gaze travel skeptically over the falling-down theater she lived in. “But no doubt you know best your own circumstance.” His voice was politely doubtful. “I have another use for your, er, person that you might find more to your liking: an acquaintance of mine is hosting a house party in a few weeks and is planning to stage an especially written play as part of the festivities. He has engaged a theatrical troupe of players, but the lead actress has unfortunately found herself unable to play.” He made a slight moue. “A delicate indisposition, you understand.”

  “I do indeed,” Lily said coolly, feeling pity for the actress who had discovered herself with child and thus out of work. She hoped the poor woman had someone to care for her. Without Maude she wasn’t sure what she would have done when Indio arrived. “But I’m surprised, Your Grace.”

  He tilted his head, his blue eyes sparkling with interest. “Indeed?”

  “I would think the arranging of a simple house party play quite beneath your attention.”

  “Ah.” He smiled almost to himself. “I find I do like doing the occasional favor. It makes the receiver so much more in my debt.”

  Lily swallowed. Would the duke consider her in his debt now? Probably, but it really didn’t matter: she needed the work. Private theatricals were quite popular, but naturally expensive to produce and thus few and far between. She was lucky to have the offer. “I’d be pleased to act in the play.”

  “Wonderful,” the duke said. “I’m told that rehearsals won’t begin for another fortnight or so, as the play isn’t finished yet. I’ll contact you at the appropriate time, shall I?”

  “Thank you.”

  He smiled slowly. “Your talents are very much praised, Miss Goodfellow. I find myself looking forward to the party—and the play—with unforeseen anticipation.”

  Lily was still considering the proper reply to such a complicated comment when a muddy whirlwind burst from the blackened trees, followed closely by a tumbling ball of red-and-black mud. “Mama! Mama! You’ll never guess—”

  Indio skidded to a stop as he caught sight of their guest, falling abruptly silent.

  Sadly, Daffodil had no such impulse. The little greyhound halted by her friend and began yapping shrilly, the force of her barks making her front legs bounce off the ground.

  The duke narrowed his eyes very slightly at the dog and Lily suddenly felt an irrational fear for her pet.

  Maude came out of the theater and snatched up Daffodil, who decided to turn affectionate, laving the maidservant’s face with her pink tongue.

  “Enough of that now,” Maude scolded. “Come here, Indio.”

  She held out her hand for the boy and Indio started forward.

  “A moment,” Montgomery drawled. He halted the boy with a touch of his hand to Indio’s shoulder. The duke glanced at Lily. “This is your son?”

  Lily nodded, her fingers balling into fists in her lap. She didn’t know why the duke should take an interest in Indio, but she didn’t like it. Not at all.

  Montgomery placed a long forefinger under Indio’s chin and tilted his face up, staring at his curious eyes for several heartbeats.

  “Fascinating,” the duke drawled softly at last, “the dissimilar colors of his eyes. I believe I’ve only seen the like once before.”

  And he turned and smiled his beautiful snake smile at Lily.

  THE BOY WAS watching him again.

  It was late afternoon a day later and the sun was giving up the struggle behind a barrier of gray clouds as Apollo examined the ornamental pond. He and the other gardeners had spent the last three days dredging the stream that fed the pond, clearing it of debris so the pond might once again be filled with freshwater. It had been filthy, muddy work, but the result was already apparent: the water level in the pond was rising. An old stone bridge arched to a little island in the middle and Apollo raised both hands, palms out, fingers together and pointed up, thumbs at right angles, making a frame for the view between.

  Nearby the bushes rattled as the boy shifted—and then froze like a hare hiding from a fox.

  Apollo was careful to show no sign that he’d noticed the child.

  He considered the picture within his frame. Originally he’d thought to tear the bridge down—it was much the worse for wear from the fire—but looking at it now, he thought it might become a rustic ruin with the right plantings around it. Perhaps an oak at the near shore and a grouping of reeds or a single flowering tree on the island.

  He sighed and dropped his hands. Trees were his most pressing problem. Most hadn’t survived the fire, and of course for one to mature took many years. He’d read about transplanting fully grown trees—the French were said to be able to do so—but he’d never tried it himself.

  Time enough to worry about that. For today he still had to pull yet another dead tree from the ground. He pivoted—and exhaled hard as his right foot slid on the slippery pond bank. Apollo caught himself and grimaced down at his boot, covered with the stinking green slime that still lined the bank where the pond had retreated from the original shoreline.

  From the bushes came a gasp, presumably at his near fall. What the child found so fascinating about him, Apollo had no idea. His work was the same as the other gardeners’—tedious and wearying—yet the boy seemed to spy only on him. In fact, Apollo had noticed that Indio’s hiding place became closer every day, until today the boy was only feet away. He was beginning to wonder if the boy wanted to be noticed.

  Apollo bent to pick up his long-handled adze. He swung it over his head and then down into the soft ground at the root of a stump. The heavy adze hit with a satisfying thump and he could feel that he’d struck one of the main roots.

  He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt and heaved the adze free from the stump. Then he swung again.

  “Daff,” came a hiss from the bushes.

  Apollo’s lips twitched. Indio hadn’t chosen a particularly adept spy-mate. The greyhound obviously didn’t understand his young master’s need for stealth. Even now she was wandering out of their hiding place, nose to the ground, more interested in some scent than Indio’s frantic call. “Daff. Daffodil.”

  Apollo sighed. Was he really expected not to notice the dog? He was mute, not blind—or deaf.

  Daffodil ambled right up to his feet. She’d apparently lost her fear of him in the last week of spying—or perhaps she was simply bored of sitting still. In any case she sniffed the tree stump and the adze, and then abruptly sat to scratch one ear vigorously.

  Apollo extended a hand for the little dog to sniff, but the silly thing jumped back at his movement. She was quite near the pond bank and her sudden leap ca
used her back legs to slip in the mud. She tumbled down the bank and into the water, disappearing beneath the surface.

  “Daff!” The boy ran from his hiding place, his eyes huge with fear.

  Apollo put out his hand, blocking him.

  The boy tried to dart around his outstretched arm. “She’ll drown!”

  Apollo seized him and swung the boy off his feet and then set him down firmly, placing his hands on his shoulders and bending to stare into his eyes. He narrowed his eyes and growled, never so frustrated by his loss of speech as now. He couldn’t argue with the child—tell him what he meant to do and instruct him to obey, and thus he was reduced to animal grunting. Better the boy should fear him, though, than drown trying to rescue his pet.

  Indio gulped.

  Apollo stepped back, keeping his eye on the boy, and pulled off his shoes, waistcoat, and shirt. He hesitated a moment, staring suspiciously at the boy.

  Indio nodded. “Yes. Please. Please, help her.”

  Without waiting further, Apollo turned and waded swiftly into the water. The little dog had reemerged at the surface, but she was thrashing in panic instead of trying to swim.

  Apollo grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and lifted her clear from the pond. She hung pathetically, water streaming from her rat-thin tail and drooping ears. He turned and waded back to the shore.

  The boy hadn’t moved from where Apollo had stopped him. Indio watched him intently.

  Apollo picked up his shirt and wrapped the shivering greyhound in it before handing the little dog to the boy.

  Indio clutched her to his chest, his eyes swimming in tears as the dog whimpered and began to lick his chin. He looked from the pet in his arms up at Apollo. “Thank you.”

  Daffodil coughed, choked, opened wide her narrow mouth, and vomited up a thin trail of pond water all over the shirt.

  Apollo winced.

  He turned and found the worn cloth bag he’d brought his lunch in. Fortunately, he’d placed his notebook in it earlier, so that at least wasn’t wet. Apollo repressed a shuddering shiver as he crouched and rummaged in the sack. Earlier he’d eaten his luncheon—a pork pie—and wrapped a leftover piece in a cloth. Apollo rose with the bundle and the little dog immediately leaned from her master’s arms, sniffing eagerly at the cloth. Apollo unwrapped the morsel and broke off a piece, holding it out. Daffodil snatched it from his fingers and gulped it down.