by Sandra Dubay
Not waiting to be told twice, Dyanna dumped the cloak and hat over the chair and ran for the hall leading toward the kitchensthe hall from which the narrow back stairs led to the upstairs corridor and the safety of her room.
It was not until he was halfway up the stairs that Justin realized what he'd just done.
"Tom?" he said softly, remembering suddenly that the youngest footman had absconded. Pausing on the stairs, he looked back down into the entry hall. It was deserted. His hat and evening cloak lay draped over the arms of a tapestried chair near the door.
But there had been someone there. He had given his hat and coat to a footman the size of young Tom. Hadn't he?
Shaking his head, Justin resumed his climb up the stairs. He hadn't thought he'd had that much to drink. Whatever it was they put into the punch at Brooks's, it was more potent than he had realized.
While Justin was pondering the mystery of the disappearing footman, Dyanna was climbing the twisting, narrow, pitch-black staircase that seemed to rise forever into the darkness. She'd kicked off her slippers at the foot of the stairs and her stockinged feet made no sound on the wooden treads as she at last reached the top of the stairs and emerged through the door into the upstairs hall.
In the silent emptiness of the corridor she could hear the sound of Justin's footsteps nearing the top of the marble staircase.
Poised in the middle of the hall for a moment, Dyanna wondered if Justin would come to her room as he occasionally did upon returning from an evening out. It was as if he had to reassure himself that she had not run away again.
In the distance, his shadow fell across the corridor. In a moment, he would be in the hall and would see her there. Forcing her feet into motion, Dyanna ran for her room. The door of her sitting room had just closed soundlessly behind her when Justin appeared.
In her room, Dyanna tore off her wig and shoved it, along with her shoes and the rest of the clothes she'd pilfered from the attic under her bed. Then, her hair tumbling around her shoulders, she leapt into bed and jerked the covers up under her chin.
As she'd feared, the rattle of her sitting room door sounded hollowly in the darkened room. The thud of Justin's boots crossed the carpet approaching the bedchamber door.
Dyanna tensed as she heard the creak of the door latch beneath Justin's hand. The door swung open, a smooth, white shadow in the moonglow that shone through the diaphanous draperies.
"Dyanna?" Justin entered the room, his footsteps muffled in the thick pile of the carpet. "Dyanna? Are you awake?"
Feigning sleep, Dyanna waited until he had reached the bedside before she stirred and pretended to awaken.
"Justin?" she said softly. "Did you just come in?"
"Yes," he admitted. "I'm sorry I woke you."
"I don't mind," she told him truthfully. It rather pleased her that he came to her room nearly every night before retiring to his own chambers across the hall. "Is it late?"
"Nearly two, I think. Can I get you anything?"
"Nothing, thank you."
Though normally she enjoyed these intimate nocturnal visits, she was too frightened tonight that he would discover, beneath the demurely drawn-up covers, that she was fully dressed in the dark blue-and-white livery of DeVille House footmen. Drawing a deep breath, she feigned a yawn that seemed to make the top half of her head disappear.
Immediately, Justin rose from the edge of the bed where he was wont to perch during his visits.
"I'll leave so you can go back to sleep," he said softly. "Good-night, sweetheart."
Bending, he brushed his lips on her cheek and was gone as quietly as he had come.
Dyanna heard the bedchamber doors close behind him, then the sitting room door. His footsteps crossed the corridor and the soft thud of his own door closing behind him echoed through the rooms. Even so, it was nearly a half hour before she was brave enough to climb out of the bed and go about the business of stripping off the livery and finding a safe hiding place for her new-found disguise.
Dressed in her nightgown, she climbed back into bed and settled into her pillows. Though she did not know where Justin went on his evenings out, and did not know whom he saw or what he did, she took some comfort in the fact that when he returned he generally smelled of fine liquors and tobacco smoke. She could not have borne smelling some anonymous woman's rich, cloying perfume on his clothes.
Chater Twenty-Seven
Having been so nearly caught by Justin in her guise as a footman dampened Dyanna's ardor for masquerades during the next several weeks. More than once during the intervening weeks, in the dead of night while the household slept, she had taken out the small pile of clothing from its hiding place in the bottommost drawer of the cabinet at the back of her closet. She had examined them, mended them, slipped on the jacket of the livery or Tom's own brown cloth coat and stood before her pierglass wondering if she would ever have the nerve to venture out of her room, out of DeVille House, disguised as a young man.
It was true, of course, that she no longer had such a strong incentive for risking disaster by venturing out alone into the bustling, dangerous streets and alleys of London. Justin, realizing that the oppressive atmosphere of DeVille House and Dyanna's near imprisonment behind its elegant walls had played a large part in her desperate flight to Patterton Park, had relaxed his restrictions on her going out. She was free to go as she chose, within reason and taking care to be accompanied by Charlotte and, when Justin was not available, Bertran. She went to the shops until they began to bore her. She went riding in the park, reveling in the stares of gentlemen, delighting in how frequently Lord This or Mr. That applied to Justin to be presented to his ward and enquired as to whether or not she might be courted.
Nor was she displeased by the way Justin gently but firmly discouraged potential suitors. It fired her hopes that he intended her for some other fatenamely, though even now she scarcely dared hope for it, of one day becoming Lady DeVille. It was her favorite fantasysurpassing even that of escaping into the swirling anonymity of London in the guise of a boy.
The afternoon was fine. The late summer sunshine shone brightly in a bright azure sky dotted with great fluffy clouds.
Dyanna sat in the garden. She wished she hadn't thrown herself quite so enthusiastically into shopping when first Justin had said she might go. The shops now held little appeal for hershe had smelled too many scents, tried on too many bonnets, found herself draped in too many fine fabrics to take much pleasure in it anymore. The novelty had worn off.
Sighing, she leaned back against the tree that shaded her complexion from the sun. Charlotte had detected a pair of freckles flanking the up-turned tip of her nose that morning and had nearly had a fit of apoplexy. No more sun! had been her decree, and Dyanna had agreed, more out of a desire to hear the last of the subject than for any real concern about the whiteness of her skin.
Lost in her reverie, she did not hear Justin's approach. She did not hear him coming up the walk between the carefully tended flower beds; she did not notice him stop in the shade of a nearby tree and gaze at her. Had she, she would have surprised on his handsome face all the admiration, all the love, all the desire he took such exquisite care to hide from her.
When, at last, she did sense his presence and look up at him, he was prepared. His strong, regular features were composed in an expression of careful serenity that betrayed nothing of the havoc she wreaked on his senses.
''Justin," she breathed as he moved toward her. She sighed as he came toward her. There had never been a man like Justin, her heart whispered. There would never be another.
"Good afternoon, Dyanna," he said. His voice, low and rich, sent shivers down her spine, raising the fine silver hairs on the back of her neck.
"Good afternoon, Justin," she replied, a breathy, breathless tone in her voice that sent a tantalizing tingle through him. "I thought you would be going out after lunch."
"I was thinking of doing just that," he admitted; there was a pleased, mischievous smile
on his face that told Dyanna he had something special in mind. "That is what I came here to ask you about."
"Going out?" she asked hopefully.
"I thought you might enjoy an outing, as the day is so fine. We could drive in the park, or visit some of the sights, or"
"The lions?" Dyanna asked.
"What was that?"
"The lions. I should like to see the menagerie in the Tower."
Justin hesitated. He had been to the menagerie once, long before, and found it a thoroughly depressing place. The cages were cramped and the animals, for the most part, old and apathetic. And the place smelled abominably. Still, it was what Dyanna wanted.
"Very well, the Tower it is. Go have Charlotte get you ready. I'll meet you in the hall in fifteen minutes."
Taking the hand Justin offered, Dyanna rose. For a long, lingering moment, her hand lay in his, warm and trembling. Her gaze rose slowly, shyly to meet his until their eyes met, a melding of gold and aqua. Dyanna shivered. He was so tall, so strong, so handsome. She longed for him to take her into his arms and kiss her.
Justin swallowed hard. She was so beautiful with her silvery curls tumbling over her shoulders and down her back. There were roses in her cheeks, as pink and pretty as those painted on the soft rustling silk of her gown. Did it matter so much that she was his ward? Did it matter that she was the daughter of his friend? She was a beautiful woman, willful and reckless it was true, but docile, meek women had never held much attraction for him. Had they met under different circumstances, he felt sure he would have made her his own long ago.
"Dyanna . . ." he said softly, gently, his fingers threading through hers, "I . . . we . . ."
"Yes, Justin?" she prompted, her heart pounding, certain that this was the moment she had longed for, the moment when all the barriers between them would tumble down, when all the qualms he'd had over the feelings his beautiful young ward evoked in him had at last been vanquished by the power of his love for her. In a moment they'd be in one another's arms. "We . . .?"
From the end of the garden, near the back of the house, Charlotte's voice shattered the enchanted tension that held them both in thrall.
"Miss Dyanna? Miss Dyanna! You're not out in the sun again, are you?"
"Damn!" Justin hissed, his golden eyes flashing as he glared toward the maid.
"What were you going to say, Justin?" Dyanna prompted almost desperately. "We what?"
He hesitated for a long, agonizing moment, but the spell, for the moment at least, was irreparably shattered. "We'd better hurry if we're going all the way to the Tower. Go along now and have Charlotte get you ready."
Turning on his heel, he moved off in the direction of the stables to order the carriage brought around to the front of the house.
In the shade of the tree, watching him go, Dyanna felt as if she would cry. She wanted to scream, to cursemost of all, she wanted to kill Charlotte!
Snatching up her skirts, she stalked toward the house. She'd be ready to leave in fifteen minutes all right; but she intended to spend ten of those minutes giving Charlotte the tongue-lashing of her life!
Contrary to Justin's hopes, the menagerie in the Tower had not improved since his previous visit. He was only too glad when Dyanna quickly decided she'd seen enough and they emerged into the sunshine of the day once more.
They were strolling toward their carriage when a shrill, unpleasant voice hailed them. They turned and Dyanna's eyes rounded at the apparition that was approaching.
"Christ," Justin muttered. "It's Rawley!"
Dyanna stared. The man was seventy if he was a day. His face was painted to a ghastly pallor with white lead, then rouged until stark patches of red stood out on the sharp, jutting bones of his cheeks. His lips had been carmined into an obscene cupid's bow that twitched at the corners as his deep-set eyes flickered over Dyanna. He was dressed in black satin and white silk and a gleaming white wig perched atop his head, its black-bowed pigtail trailing to the middle of his back, made his head seem far too large for his whippet-thin body.
"My lord DeVille," he drawled, bowing first to Justin, then to Dyanna. "I pray you, present me to this vision of loveliness."
Justin hesitated, clearly loath to bring Dyanna into contact with this relic of the decadent past.
"Lord Rawley," he said tightly, resigned to making an introduction. "Allow me to present Miss Dyanna McBride, my ward. Dyanna, Viscount Rawley."
"McBride?" Lord Rawley's red-rimmed, kohled eyes made another slow perusal of Dyanna's body. "Surely not Rakehell McBride's little daughter. Damme, I'd no idea how long it's been. What a little beauty you are, my love. And DeVille, why've you been hiding this glorious creature?" He smiled and Dyanna could not take her eyes from the curving, blood-red lips. "I knew your father well, my dearbetter, I dare say, than your guardian." His eyes slid to Justin's face and back again. "What a pity you were not left in my care. What a pity indeed!"
Dyanna shivered, feeling a sick quivering in the pit of her stomach. Involuntarily, she edged closer to Justin. The thought of being left at the mercy of this painted, leering old man made her flesh crawl. For the first time in many years, Dyanna felt a surge of gratitude for the father who had deserted her before she was out of leading strings. If nothing else, he had left her in the care of a man not worn out by his vices nor so riddled with debauchery as to see her as nothing more than a succulent treat for his lusts.
"If you will excuse us, my lord," Justin was saying, feeling Dyanna's tremblinig as she pressed close beside him. "We were just leaving."
"Of course, forgive me," Lord Rawley said, making them both another courtly bow. "I look forward to meeting you again, my lovely Miss McBride . . . under more pleasant circumstances." His dark black eyes glittered. "Oh, yes, I look forward to furthering our acquaintance.''
Before Dyanna could react, the foppish old reprobate had taken Dyanna's hand and lifted it to his carmined lips. When he released it, its delicate white skin bore a perfect imprint of his mouth.
With another leering smile, Lord Rawley moved away and Dyanna pulled out a lace-edged handkerchief and scrubbed at the red imprint on her hand.
"Who was that man, Justin?" she asked as he handed her into the coach. "He made my skin crawl!"
"As well he might," Justin agreed. "He was an intimate of Sir Francis Dashwood, one of the Friars of Medmenham. Now he confines himself to practices more discreet but no less loathsome."
"What practices?" she demanded, craning her neck to watch the fantastic old man disappear around a corner.
Receiving no answer, she prompted: "Justin? What practices?"
Justin said nothing. Poised to climb into the carriage, his foot on the step, he was staring off in the other direction.
Dyanna leaned down so she could see out the opposite window. In the distance, a woman returned Justin's gazea pretty, petite creature with strawberry-blond curls. She seemed distressed, but made no move to approach.
"Barnes," Justin said, addressing the coachman as he stepped backward and closed the carriage door. "Take Miss Dyanna home."
"Justin!" Dyanna protested, reaching a hand toward him as if to hold him back. "Where are you going?"
"I have to talk to someone. I'll see you at home later."
"But Justin!"
Without another word, Justin moved away in the direction of the pretty blonde who smiled tremulously as she saw him approaching.
From the window, as the carriage rolled away, Dyanna watched, torn between anger and chagrin. She hung out the carriage window, watching as Justin went to the woman in jonquil silk, watching as he reached her, as he put out a hand and touched her elbow.
The last sight Dyanna had before the carriage bore her away was of Justin and the pretty blonde, whose befeathered bonnet barely reached the top of Justin's shoulder, walking with their heads close together, deep in some intimate, obviously private conversation.
As the carriage rolled through London, making its slow way along the crowded streets toward
Piccadilly and DeVille House, Dyanna determined to discover the identity of the strawberry-blonde Justin found so fascinating and exactly where she fit into Justin's life.
Chater Twenty-Eight
Even as Dyanna was being borne away under protest, Justin made his way to where Octavia FitzGeorge stood.
"Ma'am," he said, lifting his hat as she dropped him a little curtsy.
"Good day, my lord," she replied softly, flushing prettily as Justin fell into step beside her.
"I was wondering, ma'am, if you had heard anything from Lord Culpepper."
A distraught look crossed her pretty, round-cheeked face. "Oh, my lord," she bleated. "I was going to ask you the same thing!" She sighed, sinking onto a stone bench beside the path. "I suppose he has married the young woman of fortune you spoke of when you visited the house on Queen Street." Tears glittered in her great dark eyes. "I am lost. Utterly lost."
Sitting down beside her, Justin took her hand in his. He felt compassion for her. He was, and had always been, easy prey for pretty, tearful women. He could captain a privateer, fight any man to the death with sword or gun, but he could not bear the sight of tears in a pair of fine eyes.
"He did not marry the young lady," he revealed. "The marriage was prevented in time."
Octavia's relief was as obvious as it was enormous. "Thank God!" she breathed. "Oh, thank God. Was it you, my lord? Did you prevent his wedding the lady you mentioned?"
"It was," Justin admitted, unwilling to say more on the subject.
"Oh, my lord, how am I ever to repay you?" Her tears dried, Octavia gazed up at Justin with rapt admiration.
"Your gratitude is quite enough," Justin told her, though he believed in his heart of hearts that the pretty young woman before him should not be too pleased that Geoffrey's plans had been thwarted. For one thing, he sincerely doubted that Geoffrey's marriage to the former actress was a lawful one. It seemed only too likely that she was no more than his mistress for all she believed otherwise. Her disillusionment had merely been postponed.