by Jo Beverley
But then she became aware of something amiss. Had somebody shocking managed to gain entre´e? Was someone drunk? The drinks at these assemblies were deliberately mild to avoid that.
But then she realized it was closer to hand—literally. As she joined hands with a uniformed officer of about forty, she saw anger on his chunky face. His cheeks were flushed, and she didn’t think it was with exertion.
As they stepped one way, then the other, she said, “I admire our soldiers very much, sir, and thank you for your service.”
“I thank you, ma’am,” he said, but gruffly.
“Were you at Waterloo, sir?” Mara persisted, bright and smiling.
“Unfortunately no, ma’am. I was in Canada.”
The dance separated them. Simon had made enemies in Canada. Was his anger directed at her as Simon’s sister?
When she reached Dare again, he asked, “What’s the matter?”
She smiled. “Nothing when I’m with you.” It was no effort to look into his eyes as the dance required.
When she joined the officer again, she probed. “My brother, Lord Austrey, was in Canada until recently. In York. Perhaps you knew him? He was Simon St. Bride then.”
“Alas, no, ma’am. I was in Lower Canada, in New Brunswick.”
The “alas” was merely polite, but she could detect no animosity. She tried another tack. “We are exiles from our London home, which suffered a leak of coal gas. Fortunately Lord Darius has given us refuge at Yeovil House.”
The man’s face pinched as if he smelled gas here. His ill feeling was directed at Dare?
Mara danced on wondering, Why, why, why? Merely because of opium? That would be horribly unfair. Perhaps the ill will was some lingering resentment over a prank. Dare’s pranks were always gentle, but one could have annoyed the man. Still, the officer had not been at Waterloo.
The dance ended with her no wiser. Mara danced next with St. Raven, who flirted in a satisfyingly rakish way. But then she shivered. It was as if a chilly fog was creeping through Almack’s Assembly Rooms. Mara tried to deny it, but then she caught Sophie looking at her as if someone had died.
St. Raven was still smiling, but he sensed it, too. Mara couldn’t see Dare.
As soon as the dance ended, they wove through the crowds to Simon’s side. “What’s happening?” she asked, wafting her fan and looking, she hoped, as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
He, too, was politely smiling, but she could see tension in his jaw. “Never mind for now, but may I let it slip that you’re engaged to marry Dare?”
So it was about Dare, and it was bad. Her gaze had found him. He was talking to the Charringtons and another couple, but people were shooting glances at him.
“If he’s allowed to marry me he must be a sound ’un?” Mara asked. “What is it, Simon?”
“Nonsense, but nasty. Let’s join him.”
Simon took her over to Dare, handing her off in a manner reminiscent of a wedding. It was easy for Mara to smile at Dare, and he returned it. When Simon stepped away, Mara asked, “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know.”
Of course if anything was being whispered, he’d be the last to be told. The next dance struck up, and it was a waltz.
“At last,” Mara said and they stepped onto the dance floor.
For the next little while, Mara pushed aside all cares. Whatever the problem, Simon would be telling people about their betrothal and that should do the trick. If the St. Brides of Brideswell were happy to let a daughter marry Lord Darius Debenham, nothing could be seriously amiss with him.
When the dance ended, the Charringtons and Balls moved around them, almost like a guard, though a smiling, lighthearted one. Mara felt able to go to the ladies’ retiring room, which she needed, but when she entered, conversation stopped. Soon the three ladies who’d been there left and she was alone with the maid.
She eyed the elderly woman. “If I asked, would you tell me what they were saying?”
The woman cocked her head. “Would you be Lady Mara St. Bride, ma’am?”
“I would.”
“Well, then, they were gossiping about your husband-to-be, a Lord Darius. Saying as he turned coward at Waterloo and hid to avoid the battle.”
Mara gasped. “That’s a horrible lie. He was serious wounded!”
“But as they have it—”
Two women walked in and the maid fell silent. The women looked at Mara and pasted bright smiles on their faces before going behind curtains to use the chamber pots.
Mara did the same, then left, burning with fury. Dare, a coward. This was wicked! And heavens! Word of the bethrothal would be all over England before they’d spoken to her father. She remembered with difficulty to look as if she hadn’t a care in the world as she entered the ballroom.
Probably many of the people here were unaware of undercurrents. She could see enough who weren’t, however, people who were talking in a secretive way, casting sideways glances at Dare. She saw two of the patronesses with their heads together. They couldn’t go so far as to ask Dare to leave, could they?
He was still surrounded by friends, friends of respectability and high rank. A distinguished older couple joined the group as Mara hurried over.
She was introduced to the Duke and Duchess of Belcraven—a charming lady with a hint of French still in her voice, and an austere gentleman, but with kind eyes. Lord Arden’s parents. They were clearly willing to lend their support, but she heard the duke say something about unfortunate.
Dare looked pale and strained, and she longed to whisk him away to safety, but of course to leave now would be the worst possible thing. What time was it? How long before the opium wore off entirely, and what would happen then?
She slipped in next to Simon. “Someone has to deny the rumors.”
“You heard, then?”
“It’s wicked.”
“Yes, but no denial will count unless it comes from someone who would know. I wish Con were here. He fought at Waterloo.”
“What of Lord Vandeimen? He seemed to know Dare from Waterloo. And a Captain Morse.”
“I’ll ask them.”
Simon moved away, but soon returned. “Couldn’t find Morse, but Vandeimen says he never saw Dare at all during the battle. There’d be no point in a lie. He’s finding a Major Hawkinville. Says he might do the trick.”
“Dare needs to get away.”
“I know,” Simon said, not bothering to point out why it was impossible.
Mara returned to Dare’s side, trying to radiate unshadowed delight. Then a tall man strolled over, a redhaired woman by his side. “Dashing Deb, as I live and breathe.” He spoke a little louder than necessary.
Dare started, but managed a grin. “Hawk Hawkinville. Surviving without armies to shuffle around?”
“Shuffling cattle and drainage ditches instead. Not much difference in the end.” He introduced his wife, then said, “Glad to see you looking well, Debenham. The Duke often says how well you served.”
Mara slowly exhaled. People nearby had to hear, and “the Duke” was, of course, Wellington. Mara had no idea why Major Hawkinville could invoke his name this way, but it was a blessing.
Then Hawkinville turned to her. “Will you grant me the next dance, Lady Mara?”
She dipped a curtsy. “Of course, Major.”
Dare partnered the Duchess of Belcraven, and the Duke took out Mrs. Hawkinville. The atmosphere was changing, but only to one of confusion. How could this be completely wiped away without facts?
At the end of that dance, they decided they could leave. Jancy had made a modest comment to Lady Downshire about her delicate condition, and that was their excuse.
Dare appeared calm in a frozen kind of way, but once in the carriage, he asked, “Very well. What is it now?”
He sounded so weary that Mara wished she could take him in her arms.
Simon spoke bluntly. “Someone’s spread the story that you ran from the battle. That you hid in so
me bushes. That your wounds came about when those bushes were overrun by our own cavalry in pursuit of fleeing French.”
“Dear God. I’ve always been afraid of that.”
“It’s not true!” Mara exploded.
He looked at her. “How can I tell?”
“Because you are who you are.”
Dare’s lips twisted. “I wish I were sure of that.”
Chapter 23
When they arrived back at the house, Simon proposed a council of war, but Dare said, “I’m sorry, Simon. Not now,” and went upstairs.
“Damn, I forgot.”
Jancy took his arm. “There’s nothing to do tonight that can’t be done tomorrow, love. Come to bed.”
Mara went upstairs with them and entered her room feeling selfishly deserted. She needed to talk over events, and she needed to be with Dare. She had some idea now of his nightly battles and tonight could be dire.
Ruth arrived with hot water and began helping Mara out of her clothes. “And how was it, milady?”
“It?”
“Almack’s, milady!”
“Oh, as expected.” But if she didn’t want Ruth in a fret, she had better show some enthusiasm. “Sophie and Giles Gilliatt were there.”
“That must have been nice, milady.”
“And I met the Duke and Duchess of Belcraven. They’re the parents of one of Simon’s friends.” She dredged up names of other people who might satisfy Ruth’s interest, but was profoundly grateful when she was finally in her bed.
But Ruth hovered. “Are you all right, milady?”
“Yes, of course. Just a little tired.”
“From a bit of dancing? That’s not like you.” Ruth put her hand to Mara’s forehead.
Mara brushed it away. “I don’t have a temperature, Ruth.”
“Just checking. It’s a nasty place, London is. All sorts of dirt and disease.”
Including, Mara thought when she was finally alone, gossip. Who could have invented such a horrible story?
Or is it true?
Definitely not.
But Dare feared it.
It isn’t true. It isn’t!
He must be so anguished, but he had people to care for him. Salter, Feng Ruyuan.
She couldn’t bear it. She climbed out of bed, put on her wrap, and left her room. As usual at such an hour, the house was silent, so she hurried along without fear of being caught. She wasn’t sure she cared anyway.
She reached the door to the musician’s gallery and opened it—to be met by silence. She stepped carefully up to the curtains and made a chink to look through. The ballroom was empty. Something was definitely wrong.
Mara left the gallery and went carefully down the dark stairs to the corridor with its occasional night lamps. She needed to see Dare, to know how he was, to help him if possible. She had the right by love, both hers and his.
She went to Mr. Feng’s room and listened at the door, but heard no sound. She moved on to the door to Dare’s bedroom and tapped, surprised by how little hesitation she felt. The door opened and she faced Dare’s stone-faced man, Salter.
“Is Lord Darius here?”
“No, my lady.”
“He’s with Mr. Feng?”
“No, my lady.”
“Then where is he?”
After a moment, he said, “I don’t know, ma’am. He came up and changed. Then he disappeared.”
“This isn’t good, is it?” She’d never spoken to Salter before, but she knew him to be a kindred spirit at this moment, a comrade-in-arms.
“No, ma’am. What happened?”
Mara stepped into the room and closed the door, then gave him a quick account of Almack’s. “Could it be true?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re not?”
“I’m in love. I know what that does to a person’s judgment.”
His grim face relaxed a bit. “It isn’t true, ma’am. I’ve lived so close with Lord Darius this past eight months that I know him better than he knows himself. The mind’s a funny thing and can invent a lot, especially under the influence of opium, but the truth is always there. There’s none of that sort of cowardice in him. The mind can lie to itself, especially to try to bury shame, but only to a point. He has no memory of anything like that.”
“Have you told him that?”
“Haven’t had the chance, have I?” Salter said.
“Where will he have gone?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. We haven’t had anything like this since we’ve been here.”
“We must search.”
“It’s late, milady—”
“I can hardly sleep in this situation!”
Salter shook his head. “I mean, he’s a long way from his last dose. There might be difficulties.”
“All the more urgency in finding him, then. Get Mr. Feng to look, too.”
She left the room and prowled the corridors, trying to sense Dare. Something turned her attention toward the upper floor. Dare wouldn’t go to the children’s quarters in distress, but she was pulled that way. She had to check.
As she’d suspected, the schoolroom was dark and deserted. She blew out her candle before carefully opening the door into the children’s bedroom. By moonlight, she saw two beds, two sleeping children, and no one else.
The next door was closed and she realized there were sounds from within. Creaking floorboards, thumpings. Was Dare fighting Mr. Feng in there?
She eased open the door into an empty white room lit faintly by moonlight. Dare was in the room alone, like a ghost in his loose white clothing, bouncing from wall to wall, thumping the walls with his fists, not hard, but desperately.
Wary of startling him into hitting her, Mara said, “Dare?”
He froze, his back pressed to a wall, hands spread as if seeking something to clutch on to.
Cracked glass.
Fear made Mara tremble—fear of doing harm, a worse fear of being rejected, but she didn’t feel she could leave him to go for help.
“Salter says it can’t be true.”
“How can he know?” Perhaps she heard shivering in his faint voice.
“He seems to think he knows you very well. He’s worried about you.”
“He’s always worried about me. Everyone’s worried about me. Apart from the people who are disgusted with me.”
She walked up to him. When he turned his head away, she gripped it between her hands and turned it back to face her.
“Someone spread a lie about you, Dare. You can’t let them win like this. Perhaps this is what they want, for you to give up.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. The man in the first dance. The officer. Do you know him?”
“I can’t remember….”
“Think!”
“Mara…” His legs buckled, so he slid to sit on the ground. “I can hardly breathe.”
She sank down with him and gathered him into her arms, discovering the faint tremble that ran through his entire body, and a cold sweat that had soaked the back of his clothes. By instinct, she held him as tightly as she could, rocking him as she might a child. “I love you. I believe in you. You’re everything that is fine and admirable….”
He shook his head against her shoulder, but his hands clutched on to her like those of a drowning man.
“Yes,” she said. “Whoever did this cruel thing will live to regret it, word of a St. Bride.”
He mumbled something about devil’s hair.
“Exactly. I know now why Simon fought a duel. If I find out who did this, I’ll…I’ll do something violent.”
He laughed, she thought, but the trembling hadn’t stopped.
“You must come, Dare. To Salter and Feng Ruyuan, the ones who know what to do to help.” She grasped his arm and rose, doing her best to force him to his feet. He made it with help from the wall, breathing in sharp gasps.
“Are you in pain?”
“Of vari
ous sorts,” he breathed. “The mind is the worst. Nothing is right. Nothing is ever right.”
“Come,” she urged, trying to take his weight, though she had no hope of supporting him if he truly needed it. They made it to the door.
“Come,” she said again, steering him toward the stairs. She talked him down them, Dare balancing himself with a hand on the wall. “We’ll get you to bed.”
At the bottom, they met Salter and Feng Ruyuan, probably summoned by the sound of her voice. Salter looked as if he’d take Dare in his arms, but Feng Ruyuan said, “You are late, Darius. Come.”
The words were quiet, but seemed to snap Dare out of a haze. He cast Mara an anguished look that might be a plea for help, but then staggered after the Chinese man.
Mara followed, but Salter grabbed her arm. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but you can’t go there.”
She twitched free. “Oh, yes, I can.”
The ballroom doors were already closed when she reached them. She opened them and went in.
Dare was standing in that prayerful pose even though he swayed and trembled. Feng Ruyuan was speaking to him in a voice so soft that Mara could only catch words. Mind. Body. Control. Fear.
Then they began to move in synchrony, in flowing patterns. At first Dare moved like a broken toy and Mara wanted to protest. She fumbled her way to one of the upholstered chairs against the wall and sat, trying to lend Dare her strength.
In time something mended and he began to move almost as smoothly as Feng Ruyuan. There was a kind of sinuous beauty that reminded her of the most courtly dance, though it was like no dance she knew. She could tell that each slow step took strength, balance, and focus, especially as everything became more complex, involving turns and swoops.
Then Mr. Feng looked at her, even as he continued the patterns. He spoke to Dare, and while Dare continued, Mr. Feng beckoned her.
Mara felt a stupid urge to say, “Me?” But she stood and walked to the man.
“Like this,” he said, and demonstrated movements of the hands that swept them outward, one high, one low, then back around themselves and together again. When she had it, he nodded, and turned to match Dare’s patterns.
Mara continued the movement, feeling a little silly, but eased by doing something.