by Jo Beverley
There were other English people here, inspecting and purchasing, but their elegant party, footman in attendance, was clearly out of place.
A man came forward to greet them. He was dressed like the rest in a long robe, his hair in a pigtail, but his robe was of splendid embroidered silk and he wore a black hat.
“We are mostly a wholesale business, honored ladies,” Mr. Lee said, bowing from the waist. His English was accented but excellent. “But you are most welcome.”
They were offered tea, without milk or sugar in very small cups without handles, and also a room for their comfort. Jancy, being pregnant, appreciated that. Then they were taken on a tour of the establishment by Mr. Lee himself.
Mara had no intention of buying anything; she had all the clothes she needed and no home to decorate. She simply enjoyed the abundant beauty and subtle perfumes. Sandalwood. Perhaps incense. Others she couldn’t identify.
When Jancy dithered over a length of pale blue figured silk she clearly wanted, Mara took up her duties. “Buy it. It’s lovely.”
“Look at the price! I’m increasing, so anything truly fashionable won’t fit in a couple of months, and by next year you’ll say it’s all out of fashion again.”
“You have weeks in society ahead,” Mara said, “and first impressions count. A good mantua-maker will allow for expansion. As for next year, fashion rarely changes dramatically.”
“Oh, yes, it does. More trimming, less trimming. Fringe this year, flounce the next. And color. Remember, I’m a haberdasher’s daughter.”
“Celestial blue last year, azure blue this. Jonquil yellow last year, primrose this. The true differences are so slight as to be meaningless and retrimming is easy. She’ll have a dress length of that,” Mara told the clerk. “A generous dress length. Jancy, how much?”
“Ten yards, but that silk is almost identical and better value.”
“You mean cheaper. This is a much better quality.” She addressed the clerk. “Isn’t it?”
He bowed. “Yes, honored lady.”
“He’d be bound to say that,” Jancy grumbled, but she agreed to the purchase and to another of a moss green embroidered in white and gold.
“It will make a spectacular ball gown,” Mara encouraged. “Everyone will be talking about Lord Austrey’s lovely wife.”
Mara saw the result of her calculated words. Jancy would suffer the torments of hell for Simon; paying a little more for silk than she was comfortable with—well, a lot more—was bearable.
On the principle of striking while the iron is hot, Mara said, “And, we hope, Lord Austrey’s lovely home.”
“If you mean Marlowe House, it isn’t Simon’s. It’s his father’s.”
“As Father hates London, it might as well be.”
“Even so, I have no idea what might need to be refurbished. We were hardly inside before we rushed out again.”
Mara had to grant that. “Take swatches of anything you like. Or that Simon might like.”
“Tyrant!”
“Pinchpenny!”
They grinned at each other and Jancy set about commanding swatches of curtain and upholstery silks. Mara left her to it, thinking about the power of love. What would she do to please Dare?
Anything.
She paused to consider that.
She really would.
She’d even wander the world with him, for to be without him would be worse.
“That’s pretty.” Jancy had come over. “Buy some.”
Mara focused on the silk in front of her—a heavy white satin embroidered with garlands of pink roses. Lord, it reminded her of the dressing gown her sister-in-law had given her for her last birthday. She hated it, but wore it anyway. After all, no one but Ruth saw it.
“It’s not quite in my style,” she said.
“I didn’t think so, but you were smiling at it in such a way. What about this? Or this?” She picked out a number of rolls of silk, all lovely. “You must buy something, Mara, after bullying me into spending a fortune.”
Mara gave in and ordered a length of peach sarcenet. In a while she’d discover a distaste for it and give it to Jancy, whom it would suit wonderfully.
Everyone was satiated, so they took their departure, leaving an even more satisfied merchant behind. It was gone noon, however, and Mara had a very unsatisfied stomach. She saw no sign of an inn suitable for ladies, but when they entered the coach, the footman passed a wicker basket to Serena. She opened it and offered fruit, cakes and cider. Completely content, they relaxed into talk of fashion and society as the carriage set off back to St. James’s.
Mara remembered the matter of Hal and Blanche and raised the subject.
“You’re right,” Serena said. “We must do something.”
Laura looked doubtful. “Any number of men must have met Blanche with first Lucien, then Hal.”
“The Rogues launched me into society,” Serena said, “even though my first husband had involved me in some less-than-proper matters. None of the men involved stirred the pot. There aren’t many willing to offend the Rogues.”
“But you, at least, were married,” Laura pointed out. “Of course I want to help Blanche, but how horrible if it went wrong and the ton publicly snubbed her.”
“It’s not as if Blanche went from man to man,” Serena protested.
Mara wondered if Serena really didn’t know about Blanche’s early career.
“We need a council of war,” Serena decided. “Dinner on Monday at our house for all the Rogues who are in town?”
“Parliament allowing,” Laura said. “The sittings are running very late.”
“Then dinner will run even later. I’ll have Francis write to tell Nicholas in case he can come up. Do we invite Hal?”
“How can we not? But I think Blanche is performing that night, so he won’t come.”
Mara asked, “Is a Rogue’s sister permitted?”
“Of course,” Serena assured her. “This was your idea and we should recruit anyone who can help. St. Raven’s in Town. A duke is always useful, and he’s almost a Rogue, anyway.”
The carriage had come to a halt outside Yeovil House, but Mara paused before leaving. “Why do you say that?”
Serena laughed. “He was born to be a Rogue, but for credentials he’s foster brother to Lady Anne Peck-worth. She was virtually jilted by two Rogues—first Francis, and that was my fault, then by Con, who met an old love. The Rogues felt guilty, especially with her having a limp, so took her under their wing.”
The footman had the door open, and their packages were already being carried into the house, so Mara said her thanks and left.
“How unfair,” she said as they walked in, “that St. Raven can become a Rogue merely by being the foster brother of someone who almost married one, but a sister is beyond the pale.”
“I don’t think he’s truly considered a Rogue,” Jancy soothed as they climbed the stairs. “Merely a close associate. As a sister, you are closer.”
“Dare’s sister isn’t. In fact I can’t think of any sister who is part of the group. Only wives, and I’m not making any progress there.”
“You’re too impatient.”
“Perhaps I should kidnap and ravish Dare. Isn’t that the way valuable spouses are captured?”
Jancy shook her head. “Wait until he’s well.”
“Before kidnapping and ravishing him?”
“No, of course not.”
“I shouldn’t wait?” Mara teased as they paused outside Jancy’s door.
“Stop it!” Jancy said, laughing. “I mean that when he’s well all might fall into place. I believe you are special to him. Simon said that no one had persuaded him into society before you.”
“The park and the Tower are hardly society.”
“But he invited himself to join the theater party. Simon wonders why. I think it’s because he knew you’d be there. Did he know?”
Mara thought about it. “Yes.”
“See.”
&n
bsp; Mara contented herself with an “Oh” before hurrying to her own room. She stood there, grateful Ruth was elsewhere. Could it be true? That he’d spent an evening with his friends because of her? She reveled in that idea like a cat rolling in catmint.
She dreamily removed her gloves and bonnet, but then the clock on her mantelpiece struck two and her stomach rumbled. The light food eaten in the carriage hadn’t made a true meal.
If only she could take a late luncheon with Dare. It had been so long since she’d seen him, and they did need to work on Castle Cruel. She rang the bell. When Ruth arrived, she asked, “Is Lord Darius at home?”
“I think so, milady.”
“Do you know where?”
“No, milady. Keeps a lot to himself, or so I hear.”
Mara wanted to reprove Ruth for a touch of disapproval, but it wouldn’t help and she’d remembered her resolve not to pester him. Even though he’d invited her to go to the cork exhibition with him and the children, she decided to be demure for once.
She ordered for herself, but couldn’t resist asking, “What do they say in the servants’ hall about Lord Darius?”
“Well, milady, you know I don’t hold with gossip,” Ruth began, then continued. “They’re all old family servants so very fond of him, as I’m sure is right, for he was a right merry gentleman and very considerate of others. But…”
Mara had been waiting for the but.
Ruth lowered her voice. “They say as there’s strange goings on in the ballroom.”
“In the ballroom?”
“Yes, milady. I was warned directly never to go there, and especially at night.”
“Dances?” Mara asked, imagining wild romps with disreputable guests. She rather liked the idea of Dare holding wicked parties. In fact, she’d like to join in.
“No, milady. Just he and Mr. Salter and some others jumping around.”
Mara was tempted to laugh, but it wasn’t funny. It sounded mad.
“And,” Ruth went on, her voice a whisper by now, “they hit one another with sticks.”
“What?”
“It’s true, as I live and die! Tom—he’s the second footman—was up there on his proper business one afternoon and heard noises, so he went up into the musicians’ gallery—you won’t say anything, will you, milady?”
“No, of course not.”
“He was concerned, it being the afternoon, and nothing funny usually happening in the afternoon, you see? And he saw Lord Darius and Mr. Salter fighting with sticks. Long ones. Mostly they hit stick against stick, but sometimes, he said, they hit each other. Hard, too.”
Mara felt as if she’d popped out of a dizzy whirl back to firm ground.
“Quarterstaff,” she said, realizing she could feed some information the other way. “It can be considered a sport. It was a popular weapon in medieval times. It’s no more peculiar than boxing.”
“Oh.” Ruth seemed rather disappointed.
“Simon and his friends used to play at quarterstaff. Don’t you remember? They’d be out in the paddock whacking, blocking, and hitting. Sometimes they’d hit each other then, too, though they never meant to. I remember the time they did it on a tree fallen across the stream, acting out the story of Robin Hood and Little John.”
Abruptly Mara remembered that that game had been Dare’s idea. It formed in her mind as a brilliant summer scene with laughing youths toppling off the fallen tree into water and excited girls cheering them on from the banks. She’d been about eight and Dare a lordly, magnificent sixteen.
Mara came out of the past. “Thank you, Ruth. I’ll have my refreshments now, please.”
When Ruth had left, Mara frowned over Ruth’s stories.
Quarterstaff wasn’t so very peculiar, so perhaps the leaping around at night wasn’t either. It felt it, however, and he was such a good actor. Was he really on the brink of some insanity?
No, of course not. But she knew that later she would investigate what went on in the ballroom at night. Delphie had pointed out the musicians’ gallery.
There were many hours before then, however, so she tried to work on The Ghastly Ghoul of Castle Cruel. That seemed ground for healthy amusement.
She wrote down as much as she could remember of their inventions at the Yeoman’s Arms, then remembered saying the Tower could be a model for their castle. She drew a plan along those lines and ended up quite pleased with it.
She marked dungeons, torture chambers, and secret passages through which Anne Whyte could wander in her ghostly disguise, and in which she could encounter the scorpion—without a Y, the headless knight—without an Y, and the eyeless, mad monk.
She was smiling, but aching with sadness, too. She knew now that much of that creativity had been fueled by opium. At other times Dare seemed somber, and he was often tense.
Which was the real Dare Debenham?
Whichever, she now had reason to spend time with him. She glanced at the clock and began to add to their cast of characters.
Anne Whyte—smiling, she added, Virgyn.
Canute Ornottocanute, Lost Duke of Dawlish. Temporarily deceased.
Ethel the Ready, gallant serving maid.
With a chuckle, she added: Ethel the Unready, her lazy cousin, and Halfacanute, the duke’s midget twin brother.
Halfacanute had actually been a king of England, though she was sure the name had meant something noble back then. She couldn’t wait to share this idiocy with Dare.
Jancy knocked and came in. “What has you amused?”
Mara shared her embellishments and Jancy laughed. “What madcaps you both are.”
“Oh, I do hope so.” Mara impulsively asked, “Would you read the cards for me?”
Probably only Mara and Simon knew that Jancy could tell fortunes with cards. It was part of her secret heritage, from her early life among a gypsy family.
“Oh, I don’t know….”
“Please. I need some guidance.”
“The cards are cryptic, Mara. They’re easily misunderstood.”
“They told you Simon wouldn’t die in the duel.”
“And predicted his injury, though I didn’t want to believe that.”
“So they tell the truth. I want to know.”
Jancy bit her lip.
“Please!”
Jancy sighed. “Very well.”
She left and returned with a lovely silk bag. When she opened it, however, she took out a dirty, greasy, rag-edged pack. Mara couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose.
“A present from the woman who taught me,” Jancy said, sorting through them. She showed Mara the Queen of Clubs. “This is you. Clubs are outgoing, determined, and focused on their goals.”
“She looks like a shifty-eyed piece to me.”
Jancy smiled. “These are homemade, but perhaps you are a bit shifty at times.”
“I prefer to think of it as cunning. What are you?”
“A diamond. Fair in color, hasty in nature.”
“Why did you hesitate before saying that?” Mara asked.
“I had this exact conversation with Simon. The night before the duel.”
Mara touched her friend’s hand. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s all right. Just peculiar. I’m not sure we should do this.”
“Do you think the cards cause things to happen?”
Jancy shook herself. “No, of course not. Very well. Cut the pack a few times.”
Mara wasn’t keen on even touching the cards, but she did so. “It’s a small deck.”
“We only use the top thirty-two.” She spread the cards roughly on the table. “Pick eight.”
Mara did so, then three more times, building eight piles of four. Jancy then set each pile out and turned over the top card of the first pile.
“The king of clubs.” Jancy smiled up at Mara. “A good loyal man in your life, and that’s true. That’s Simon’s card.” She turned the next one. “The queen of diamonds. That’s me. This feels like an excellent spread. Next, the q
ueen of clubs. Everyone in place.”
“Except Dare,” Mara pointed out. “What card would he be?”
“From the way Simon talks of him in the past, the king of hearts. A joyous, generous man.”
Mara nodded, delighted by that image, but wishing Berkstead hadn’t chosen the queen of hearts for his message. It soiled this, but at least she’d heard nothing from him since.
Jancy turned the next card, the nine of diamonds, and frowned.
“What?” Mara demanded.
“This turned up for Simon, too. It says to beware of sharp objects and firearms, and to be prepared for shocks.”
Unease ran down Mara’s spine, but she said, “Neither Dare nor I am likely to be involved with blades or firearms, and it doesn’t predict death, does it?”
“No.” Jancy turned the next card and smiled at Mara. “The eight of hearts—love from a light-haired man.”
“Excellent.”
The next card was the eight of diamonds and Jancy pondered. “This suggests brevity of some sort. A short journey, perhaps.”
Mara made herself say it. “Or a short-lived love?”
Jancy met her eyes. “That, too.” She turned over the nine of spades. “I’m sorry. Loss and thwarted plans.”
Mara was tempted to sweep the cards from the table. “You’re right. We shouldn’t have done this. What’s the last card?”
It was the ten of diamonds. “That’s not much help,” Jancy said. “It foretells change, perhaps a change of home.”
“That would be when I marry. There’s no other reason I’d leave Brideswell.”
“True.”
The question of who Mara would marry remained unanswered. When Jancy moved to gather the cards, Mara said, “There’s no more? Ever the optimist, I hope for better.”
Jancy’s hands hovered. “The bottom cards are supposed to predict the more distant future.”
“Let’s see, then.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Jancy flipped the piles over. The very first one was topped by the king of hearts.
Mara looked at Jancy. “That has to be good, yes?”