To Rescue a Rogue

by Jo Beverley

  The man probably was handsome—well built, bold featured, dark eyed—but he was presently slack with shock.

  “You are a louse, sir,” Dare said, banked fury roaring free and finding a target. “A cur. A slug. The events of this night never happened. If any hint of them ever escapes, I will destroy you.”

  Berkstead was wriggling back, but he stopped and a sneering smile curled his lip. “Debenham. I know all about you.”

  It stung, but Dare hid it. “I doubt it, but if you don’t fear me, fear her brother.”

  “A St. Bride of Brideswell?” Berkstead stopped trying to rise but looked more comfortable by the moment. “A bunch of country mice. Not one of them a soldier.”

  “There are St. Brides and St. Brides. Simon St. Bride will kill you by inches, but the list lining up behind him will include some of the most powerful men in England, none of them squeamish about crushing lice. I could start with the Duke of St. Raven and the Marquess of Arden.”

  The sneer died. Apart from being the most high-ranking of the Rogues’ set, the two men Dare had named were known for being hard-riding, hard-fighting, and hot-tempered.

  “I want to marry her!” Berkstead protested. “She wants to marry me. She’s afraid of her family. They won’t let her marry out of Lincolnshire.”

  Pity began to taint Dare’s fury. “If Mara St. Bride wanted to marry a Hottentot, she would probably do so.”

  “I’ll buy a house in Lincolnshire.”

  Mara was right. The man didn’t listen.

  “She considers you too old,” Dare said, looking around for Mara’s clothing.

  A table still held scattered cards, two glasses, and an empty decanter. On a chair he saw white gloves, a pretty pink dress and a light pelerine of pale cloth. He picked them up, and the slippers from the floor, then took a candle back to the bedroom and found the turban.

  When he returned Berkstead said, “Too old?”

  “Is there anything else of hers here?”

  Berkstead’s mouth opened and shut but nothing came out. He pointed. Dare picked up a pale silk reticule from the floor by the table.

  Behind him, Berkstead muttered, “Too old? I’m only forty.”

  Dare headed for the one other door that must lead to the stairs. Hand on handle, he looked back at the crumpled man. “Remember. None of this happened. That, sir, is your only hope of salvation.”

  Chapter 4

  Mara woke the next morning when Ruth drew back the curtains with disapproving force. “Good morning and I hope you learned your lesson about men, Miss Mara.”

  “Oh, dear, I’m Miss Mara, now.”

  Ruth glared, her rather pouchy features making her look like a peevish hound. “Lady Mara, then. But a lady is as a lady does, and a lady does not come home in a different gown to the one she went out in.”

  Mara used her best repentant smile. “Dearest Ruth, I truly am very sorry, and I have learned my lesson. There’ll be nothing like that again. Honor of a St. Bride.”

  Ruth continued to glare, but Mara could tell she’d softened.

  “I know I frightened you, but nothing bad happened. Thank you for not alerting Ella and George.”

  “Which I should have done,” Ruth retorted, turning to pour the hot water she’d brought into the washing bowl. “You give me your Christian word that you’ll never sneak out with a man again?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “I don’t know how you could! I warned you ahead of time that you can never trust a man, milady. A woman’s only safety is to never be alone with them. Ravening beasts, they are….”

  Mara let the familiar lecture wash over her as she climbed out of bed and stripped off her nightgown. Ruth had a point, as Berkstead had proved; but a woman wasn’t entirely defenseless, as she had proved. She had to admit, however, that if he’d planned worse than a forced betrothal she might have been in a pickle.

  And if she hadn’t found Dare…

  But then Dare had shown that men can indeed be trusted.

  “And what am I to do with that ugly gown, milady?”

  “I’ll find a way to return it.”

  “How am I to explain the disappearance of your pink—that’s what I’d like to know.”

  Mara wanted to order Ruth to stop fretting, but she was owed as much of a fret as she felt inclined to take.

  “Who’s to notice other than us?” Mara said, “But Lord Darius will find a way to return it.”

  “That one. Not a serious bone in his body.”

  “He’s changed.”

  “And not for the better, I’m sure. When I think what could have happened, you alone with him like that.”

  “Ruth, he’s like a brother.”

  “But he’s not.” Ruth was bent over a drawer. She’d apparently run out of steam, however, for she was taking out fresh underclothes.

  Mara washed, probing her emotions for shame about last night. Bad girl that she was, she couldn’t find any. She knew she’d been foolish, and she hoped no one other than Ruth and Dare—and Berkstead, she supposed—need ever know. But she couldn’t regret something that in the end had been so thrilling.

  Looked back on from her present safety, even her flight through the dark streets felt thrilling. And Dare—how magnificent he’d been. She wished she’d been able to see him deal with Berkstead, but she’d had to get back here before Ruth panicked.

  And Dare would never have permitted it.

  She brushed her teeth, considering that.

  No, he wouldn’t have, and that thrilled her, too. If she chose to do something he opposed, he would be a challenge. How intriguing.

  And now she had a true challenge, a perfectly acceptable one. She was going to tease, trick, or force Dare Debenham back into the world, starting today.

  She rinsed and spat. “What’s the weather?”

  “Cool and cloudy at the moment, milady, but not likely to rain, according to Cook, who always feels it in her bones.”

  Mara went to the window to look for herself.

  “Miss Mara, you’re stark naked!”

  Mara pulled the blue damask curtain in front of herself as she studied the weather. Of course she couldn’t see much here—not as she could from her window at Brideswell. That looked far out over Lincolnshire countryside and she could read it like a weather almanac.

  “Come away, milady, and get decent before a man sees you.”

  Mara had never discovered if Ruth had been harmed by a man or came by her fears some other way, but it was the one feature that pushed her patience. In her own experience, gentlemen were sometimes irritating but never truly dangerous.

  She turned to put on the shift. “Ruth, really. Even if a man in the square glimpsed my body, he could hardly rush up here to ravish me, could he?”

  “He could pounce on you when you go out.”

  “I’m never alone when I go out. I generally behave exactly as a young lady should. I even wear a corset when I hardly need one,” she added, putting her arms through the holes so Ruth could lace it at the back.

  “You wander about at home.”

  “But not in Town. Not even in Lincoln.”

  Ruth tugged particularly hard on the corset laces.

  “I need to breathe, you know,” Mara protested.

  “A good tight lacing’ll remind you you’re a lady. You’re too trusting by far!”

  “Too breathless, you mean. Stop it!”

  When Ruth relented and eased the laces to a natural fit, Mara said, “I admit to misjudging Major Berkstead, but even there, his main intent seemed to be to marry me. It was most peculiar. He seems to truly think he loves me.”

  “You’re a very desirable bride, milady, and you need to remember that. But of course, you could never marry a man from Northumberland.” Ruth said that as if it were the South Seas.

  “So I said. It didn’t help.”

  Ruth passed over the stockings and garters. “Some people won’t listen to anything but what they want to hear. What dress toda
y, milady?”

  Mara pulled on the first stocking, thinking regretfully of the ruined ones, and then of Dare throwing them in the fire. For some reason that memory thrilled her, but everything about Dare last night thrilled her. The way he moved, his direct eyes, his firm mouth…

  “Milady, what dress?”

  Mara snapped out of wicked thoughts. “The brick red. I’m driving with Lord Darius this morning. You have to admit he’s as safe as the Mint.”

  Ruth turned to get the outfit, but muttered, “Addicted, he is.”

  “He’s better.” How Dare must hate even the servants knowing.

  “Driving where?” Ruth demanded, carrying the dress and pelerine back.

  “None of your business,” Mara replied as a general reminder of who was servant here and who was mistress. But then she added, “Hyde Park. In daylight. Nothing could be tamer.”

  Ruth grimaced.

  “We’ve all known Dare since he was a shaveling,” Mara protested. “There’s not a scrap of bad in him. Not a scrap. So we’ll have no more of this.”

  Ruth stopped her complaining, but the way she walked to the armoire and took out the Shako style hat that went with the outfit spoke of mutiny. Old family retainers could be a sad trial, but Mara couldn’t imagine being comfortable with a stranger. Ruth had tended her in the nursery.

  Mara didn’t usually take great interest in her clothes once they were purchased, but today, she cared about her appearance. Because she wanted to look right for Dare. Because he’d seen her in such disorder last night.

  She knew her mind was whirling in a peculiar way, but it wasn’t so surprising. Yesterday she’d been smothered by tedium, but last night had plunged her into different and dangerous waters—ones she rather liked.

  The dusky shade of the red outfit was practical for the often sooty London air, but it also suited her. It brought out the highlights in her dark hair and the glow in her complexion. The spencer was so ruched and braided that it added inches to her bust.

  Of course Dare now knew the truth….

  “What’s the matter, milady?” Ruth asked, twitching the skirt into line. “It’s one of your favorites and suits you very well.”

  Mara turned with a shrug. “Nothing. A goose walked across my grave.”

  “Don’t you say that, miss! Sure sign of bad news, that is. Why, just before we heard that the old earl was dead and your poor father must become Earl of Marlowe, I’d just said those exact words. A shiver took me and I said, ‘A goose just walked across my grave.’ I swear it’s true.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Mara said, but she wanted to roll her eyes.

  Last year the knowledge that their distant relation, the Earl of Marlowe, was on his deathbed had hung around Brideswell like a cold fog, making them all shiver one way or another because the death would bring terrible changes.

  It would turn her father, plain Mr. St. Bride and happy to be so, into the earl. Worse still, the Earl of Marlowe’s principal seat was a mansion in Nottinghamshire that was famous around the world for its classical perfection and they would all have to live there for part of the year. It couldn’t be abandoned.

  Even the joy of Simon’s safe return from Canada hadn’t entirely dispelled gloom. Geese must have been stampeding backward and forward across the graveyard.

  Simon’s return had brought the solution, however. Her father had inherited the earldom and Simon, as heir, had become Lord Austrey. Nothing could prevent that. However, Simon and his new wife had taken on the duty of living in and caring for Marlowe. The St. Bride family, greatgrandparents to babies, was free to continue living in cozy, imperfect Brideswell.

  Though Simon clearly loved their home, he couldn’t feel as strongly about it as the rest of them. After all, he’d fought to leave, to travel, and then spent years in Canada.

  Despite Black Ademar’s hair, Mara shuddered at the thought of spending so much time away or, worse, living far from home. Northumberland! Berkstead was mad.

  A tap on the door brought the footman with a note. Mara opened it, excited even though she knew what it must be.

  From Dare, formally requesting the pleasure of her company on a drive at ten. She’d never seen his writing before and considered it. Long tops and tails, but very neat. She felt strangely sure that his writing would once have been wilder, freer. She refolded it and put it in the desk drawer.

  “I suppose I must ask Ella’s permission. Go and see if she’s able to see me, please.”

  When Ruth left, Mara put on her shoes, aware of the tenderness of her feet. How fortunate that she’d arranged a drive rather than a walk.

  Her mind drifted to Dare’s gentle cleaning. Did men often wash their lady’s feet? She couldn’t imagine no-nonsense George washing Ella’s. But Simon washing his wife, Jancy’s? Yes, perhaps.

  Something about Simon and Jancy had been an education, perhaps especially as Jancy was Mara’s own age. The newlyweds behaved properly in public, of course, and all lovers could be caught looking at one another, or sharing secret smiles.

  Simon and Jancy’s connection had seemed intense, however. Almost hot. Hot enough to send a shiver through Mara, for what sense that made. Certainly her Lincolnshire suitors had seemed even more dull after that.

  She tied a ribbon, thinking that perhaps she was ruled by Black Ademar’s hair after all. Not into seeking travel and adventure, but in matters of the heart.

  She shook herself. Simon seemed to have burned through his wanderlust. Perhaps after a bit more London mayhem, she’d happily settle down with one of her quiet, dependable neighbors. Matthew Corbin, perhaps, or Giles Gilliatt.

  Or with Dare? Her heart gave a patter of warning.

  But he was from Somerset—almost as far from Brideswell as Northumberland. Impossible.

  She went to the dressing table to put in pearl and garnet earrings. After a hesitation, she added just a touch of rouge to her lips.

  What are you doing, Mara?

  Anyone would think she was trying to attract Dare.

  Nonsense, but deep inside, something purred.

  Ruth returned. “Lady Ella’s free to see you, milady.”

  Mara started as if caught in a sin and hurried off to her sister’s room. She entered Ella’s bedchamber with her mind elsewhere—to find George and Ella kissing. Not just a peck on the cheek, either!

  “Oh, I’m sorry….”

  Mara almost had the door shut again when Ella called, “Don’t by a widgeon, dear! Come in, come in.”

  Mara returned to find her sister and brother-in-law apart, smiling, but blushing. “I truly am sorry. Ruth said…”

  “George just came to say goodbye.” Ella smiled wryly up at her husband. “So many meetings and committees, then another long day in the House, he fears.”

  George, a robust man with high color and fleshy build, nodded. “Troubled times. Must be off. My dear. Mara.”

  Mara watched Ella watch him leave. “I want to marry someone like that.”

  Ella turned to stare. “Like George? You’d never suit.”

  Ella was as robust as her husband, though with a perfect cream-rose complexion and a trim waist, for now. Her soft brown hair—proper Brideswell hair—only showed as waves at the edges of a lacy cap tied beneath her chin.

  “No. I’d drive him mad,” Mara agreed with a laugh. “I mean someone I can adore as you do him, and who would feel the same way about me.”

  “Oh, but of course. It would never do to marry for less. Especially with the hair.”

  Ella’s maid came in with a fresh chocolate pot and put it on the table by the window, where Ella had clearly been taking breakfast.

  “Sit and eat,” Ella said, resuming her place, and pouring chocolate for Mara. “I can’t do all this justice.” She nibbled at a piece of toast. “It’s my observation that people have different requirements in marriage. Do have a currant bun, dear. They’re always excellent and I can enjoy it through you.”

  Mara took one and buttered it. “You
mean some people like a currant bun for breakfast, and some like dry toast?”

  “I do not like dry toast, as you well know. Wait until your turn comes. We’re all like this, but we bear well, and that’s a blessing. Now where was I? Ah, yes. Some people seem to be truly content with a cool marriage—one in which their spouse means no more to them than a friend.” She topped up her teacup. “Most require something warmer or they will be unhappy at best and unfaithful at worst. A few require fire. I suspect Black Ademar’s hair makes that demand.”

  Mara sipped at her chocolate, wishing she dared ask where on this thermometer Ella placed her own marriage.

  “That’s why I haven’t yet found a man to suit?”

  “Very likely, but you’re young yet.”

  “You married at twenty.”

  “I found George.”

  Ella’s smug tone made Mara laugh. “Hardly a heroic achievement when he’s lived not five miles from Brideswell all his life and been in and out as well. Not finding him would have been the miracle.”

  Ella pulled a humorous face. “You know what I mean. He was there waiting for me and me for him.”

  Ella had never shared such romantic notions before, but she was right. About four years ago she and George Verney had recognized each other. Suddenly they’d changed, acting like perfect fools to everyone’s gentle amusement, and then announcing their plan to marry as if expecting people to be surprised.

  “Did you have no idea?” Mara asked. “I know every possible young man within thirty miles of home and I can’t imagine suddenly seeing any of them surrounded by a golden light.”

  “Oh, dear.” Ella picked up another piece of toast. “Someone new may move into the area.”

  “Or I might meet my destiny here.” She watched for horror, but instead, Ella seemed to take it as a complaint.

  “I’m sorry, dearest. I do intend to take you to more lively events, but right now I’m so unpredictably queasy. And I tire so easily, especially at the end of the day.”