To Rescue a Rogue

by Jo Beverley

If anything, that made the reluctant Earl of Marlowe’s gloom deeper. “It’s a busy time on the land….”

  “Which Rupert can manage very well. What about the meetings of the Agricultural Society in London?”

  That proved to be more successful temptation.

  “Oh, very well,” Mara’s father sighed. “If you will have it, you’ll have it. We’ll head off on Monday.”

  “Monday!” Mara gasped. “But, Papa, the ball is set for Tuesday.”

  He stared at her. “What madness is that? We cannot be there, then, and neither can you. What a heedless child you are, arriving on Friday with this news, knowing we can’t travel on Sunday.”

  It was a disaster, but then Dare said, “With an early start tomorrow, we can make the journey in one day, sir.”

  “Travel post.” Her father stared as if Dare had suggested them flying to the moon. On his rare visits out of Lincolnshire, he had always used his own carriage and horses and taken the journey slowly.

  Even Mara’s mother was looking a bit short of air, but she managed a smile. “Won’t that be exciting, dear? Come along, Sim. We’ll grow old before our time if we avoid adventures.”

  “We’ll die before our time if we go hurtling about. It’s all Marlowe’s fault,” he complained. “Why he couldn’t have sired a bunch of sons, I’ll never know. And kept them in the country. It’s London that sickens people. Austrey would have been all right if he’d not spent so much time in London.”

  “He’d have been better off living at Marlowe?” his wife asked.

  He shot her a frustrated look and left, muttering about so much to do.

  Amy St. Bride smiled at them. “He’ll do it, dears, and it will be an adventure.” But then she turned flustered. “How exactly does one travel post? We need to order a post chaise to come here for us, don’t we? How do we pay the postillions at the changes?”

  “Will you allow me to make the arrangements?” Dare said. “Two post chaises, I assume, even if Salter rides. Unless any other of the family would like to come?”

  “Not the girls. Not to London. And the boys are at school. Rupert and Mary will be needed here. But servants. We will want our own servants.”

  Mara had to fight laughter at her mother’s increasingly frantic tone.

  “I suggest your servants travel in the family coach,” Dare said soothingly. “In fact, if they start out soon and travel well into the night, they could be in London not long after us, and the coach will be available to bring you home.”

  “Oh, that would be nice. How efficient you are, dear. Then I’d best go and make arrangements. So much to do.” But she paused to give Dare a hearty hug. “I am very pleased about this, my dear boy. I can imagine no one better for Mara.”

  When she’d left, Dare laughed softly. “That did sound as if you need a lord and master of extraordinary endurance.”

  “It’s the hair. It’s such a worry to them, the poor dears.”

  Dare took her hand and kissed it. “This journey does feel like taking innocents into the wicked world.”

  She moved closer to kiss. “They’re not innocents at all and you know it.”

  “Yes.” He nuzzled her hair and sweetness flowed through her.

  Reluctantly, she separated. “I’d better go and help Mama with the arrangements.”

  “And I’d better command the post chaises.”

  They moved back to kiss. “This feels sweet, doesn’t it?” Mara said. “Almost as if we’re already married.”

  He raised a brow. “You expect our marriage to be sweet?”

  She kissed him again, playfully. “Sugar and spice, and all things nice.”

  “That’s what little girls are made of. I’m to find frogs and snails and puppy dog tails?”

  “No,” she said, with a firm, warning look.

  “It would be a novel way of decorating a bridal bed.”

  “No,” she repeated, laughing, and escaped, rejoicing at another glimpse of the old Dare.

  Arranging for the post chaises took only a moment. Dare sent a groom to Louth with precise instructions, knowing the Brideswell name would be credit enough. Then he was at a loose end.

  He spent a little time simply sitting in the well-worn parlor in company with four dogs and three cats aware of a kind of peace he could hardly remember. Brideswell was extraordinary, and he didn’t know if it was simply the effects of the family or something more metaphysical.

  One of the setters stirred and moved to flop at his feet; then a marmalade cat leapt up into his lap, circled, and settled to be stroked.

  Doing so, he considered that before—before Waterloo—he’d not been much interested in peace and quiet. Since, it had become his precious jewel, but one impossible to find except in opium.

  Until recently.

  Until Mara.

  Until here.

  What if he’d not gone to London and Mara had been there without him? She might have fallen into terrible danger after that tryst with Berkstead. Even without that, she would have met many men. Might have chosen another man. The thought could shrivel his soul.

  But what if some other man would be better for her?

  He reined in his frantic thoughts and stroked the soothing cat, using breathing and relaxation skills so painfully acquired. The clock struck five. At least an hour before he should take his next allowance. The damnable freedom of choice made everything harder.

  Routine, that was the thing. Routine days. Routine seasons.

  Why would anyone with a tranquil, useful life seek diversity? Didn’t only the dissatisfied seek novelty? Or was that terror speaking? Was life only lived through excitement and challenge?

  He inhaled and exhaled again, sought his faltering core of serenity and stroked the cat.

  Amy St. Bride saw the man he used to be. Everyone wanted the person he’d been before. The Dare Debenham who didn’t exist anymore except as a mask. Why didn’t they realized no one could emerge unchanged from torture?

  Inhale, exhale, stroke.

  Even Mara wanted the old Dare. She glowed when he amused or came up with some idiotic novelty. Could he be the man she thought she was marrying? Or was he the monster of his worst nightmares?

  God. He rose sharply, settled the cat back with its companions by the fire and headed for the door. The setter rose and looked up at him expectantly.

  “Want a walk?” he asked.

  As if summoned, the three other dogs romped to his side, changed from somnolent to lively in a moment. He shook his head and headed for the back of the house.

  He’d had the run of Brideswell so often in his youth that he made his way easily through tangled corridors—until he became lost. The dogs waited patiently, tails wagging. The problem, he realized, was that a new extension had been added to the house, probably for Simon’s brother Rupert, who was married now and lived here, acting as his father’s estate steward.

  He found a door to the outside and began a circuit of the house, noting the changes. The dogs kept him company, exploring new scents and flushing the occasional affronted bird. More blessed peace seeped into him. How long was it since he’d done a simple thing like this?

  He paused on a path between flower beds to look at the rambling house. If it had beauty, it was the beauty of a wildflower meadow. Some of the alterations of the centuries looked more like motley patches on old clothing. It was a mongrel of a house and its magic, if it existed, did not come from good looks.

  No wonder the family had been horrified at the idea of moving to the designed perfection of Marlowe, even for part of the year. No wonder Simon had taken the burden from them. The magic of the St. Brides would wither there, like plants set in dry sand.

  Simon had proved that he could flourish elsewhere—no doubt another inheritance from Black Ademar, a rootless mercenary until he finally settled in England. Simon loved Brideswell and wanted it alive and welcoming, but had never intended to live here until his father died. Hopefully in thirty or forty years.

  M
ara was different, however, despite the hair. She wouldn’t flourish far from here. There was a house for sale nearby, but how could he commit so far until he’d fought free of the beast that coiled purring in the vial in his pocket, whispering to him now that there was no real need to wait? Peace could be his in a moment.

  His hand was sliding into his pocket when the setter romped up, tail wagging, with a stick in its mouth.

  Rescue. “Thank you,” Dare murmured as he took the stick and hurled it as far as he could. The pack raced after it and he followed, meeting the victor part way and throwing the stick forward again. Thus, with help, I progress.

  From the east side of the house, he saw the North Sea beyond an expanse of wold and marsh dotted with sheep. What fun they’d had, Simon, he, and a gaggle of cousins and neighbors out on the sea in boats. He’d liked his home and loved his parents, but life at Long Chart had never contained the sort of joyous freedom that was taken for granted at Brideswell.

  He continued on, progressing by stick throws as they skirted the walled kitchen garden. A gardener passed, pushing a wheelbarrow of manure and offering a cheerful “Good afternoon, sir.”

  But then the dogs ignored the stick and raced straight down the path. At the corner, they met a plump, running girl, an ear-flapping spaniel at her side. “Don’t get in my way,” she shouted at the dogs, booted feet flying beneath grubby skirts that ended inches above her ankles.

  Then she saw Dare and skidded to a halt. “Who are you?”

  It was a challenge, but she showed no fear. Why should she? This was Brideswell, and Dare had no doubt that the dogs would tear him to bits if he hurt her.

  “Dare Debenham. I’m a friend of Simon’s.”

  Despite plain clothes showing evidence of a day pleasurably spent, this must be one of Simon’s young sisters. Her short hair was the family’s typical brown and she had a distinct look of her mother.

  “You were at the wedding,” she said, turning friendly. “You weren’t well. I’m Lucy. Lady Lucianne St. Bride,” she amended, rolling her eyes and grinning at the absurdity of it.

  Dare laughed and captured a grubby hand to kiss it. “Lord Darius Debenham, at your service, my lady.”

  She chuckled with delight.

  Suddenly, stealing his breath, he remembered his first meeting with Mara. He’d been fourteen, so Mara had not been about Lucy’s age, and just as much of a free spirit. She, too, had worn her hair in a practical short crop of curls, and her skirts short. She’d had similar, sensible shoes. She hadn’t been Lady Mara then, and had no expectation of ever being that, but she’d called him “my lord” simply to annoy.

  “Are you all right?”

  The child’s voice recalled him. “Completely. I’m here with your sister Mara because we’re going to be married.”

  “Lovely! I’ll be a bridesmaid again. But I have to go. I’m late.” She raced away, swift and agile in her liberating clothes, and all the dogs raced with her, forgetting Dare.

  She’d been coming from the stables, so he went that way and found, as expected, a pony being rubbed down. Dare almost questioned the wisdom of letting a girl of what—seven?—ride around the area with only a spaniel for guardian, but Mara had done the same. He didn’t think his sister Thea had ever left the house, never mind the estate, in her life without an adult.

  But this was Brideswell.

  The young groom nodded, clearly noting Dare as a stranger and becoming just a little watchful. Brideswell didn’t preserve its idyll through carelessness.

  Dare offered his credentials. “I’m Lord Darius Debenham. I’m to marry Lady Mara.”

  Concern vanished. “Many best wishes, sir.” The groom turned back to the pony.

  Dare strolled along the boxes greeting some of the horses, then headed back to the house. It was probably close to suppertime if Brideswell still kept country hours, as he was sure they did. Now, because he was far from his midday dose, the thought of a noisy St. Bride meal brought out a sweat, but he’d be able to take the next dose before he had to face it.

  He realized he was fingering the vial in his pocket again and took out his hand. Damn Ruyuan. Salter could have the supplies and everything would be much easier.

  To delay having to deal with people he took the long way back, along a wildflower-edged lane beside the paddocks, then through the orchard, where fruit was in its early swell. He touched a gnarled old tree, realizing that he’d never tasted a fresh apple from here. By harvesttime he’d been at school, and Christmas had always been spent at Long Chart.

  The kitchen garden sprouted leafy greens, and frames supporting vigorous peas and beans. Everything was in order, but nothing felt regimented. Like the children of Brideswell, the plants grew best freely, but weeds and pests were dealt with ruthlessly. He sent a prayer that he not prove to be a pest.

  “Dare?”

  He looked up to see Mara coming down the path, a simple shawl around her shoulders. He smiled at how natural she looked here, so different from her London elegance.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, concern in her eyes.

  “Of course,” he lied, for he was better for seeing her. “I met Lucy.”

  “That scamp. She got a scold for being late. Do you want to go and look at Derebourne Manor later?”

  After food and opium all would be right with the world for a while. “Why not?” he said, and drew her into his arms.

  He’d meant to kiss her, and to keep it decorous, but instead, he clung and she held him. And it was, for the moment, enough.

  Chapter 26

  After the noisy family meal at a table holding fourteen, Dare let Mara drive the gig to Derebourne Manor, a pleasant double gabled house built in the reign of Queen Anne. They were taken around by the housekeeper and found the rooms to be adequate and everything in good repair. There was nothing wrong with it, but it held no magic.

  “It will come to life when a family lives here,” Mara said.

  He heard the same doubts in her.

  “We can do better,” he said, and saw her relief even as she warned, “Not many houses come available nearby.”

  “If necessary, we can build.”

  “That will take time.”

  “And patience isn’t your virtue,” he said with a smile as they returned to the gig.

  She glanced at him, laughter in her eyes. “You know me too well.” There was love in her eyes, too, so they had to kiss, right there, in front of the house, where anyone could see them.

  “One of the many advantages of being betrothed,” he said, reluctantly easing out of her arms. “We are being outrageous, but not scandalous.”

  He took the reins for the drive back to Brideswell, saying, “We could perhaps rent Derebourne while a house was building. Is there land available?”

  “I’m sure there must be. We don’t want an estate, do we?”

  “Not of any size.”

  They drove along a winding road talking comfortably of their ideal home, evening softness settling around them marked by the jangle of a cow bell heading for milking, and the first song of a nightingale.

  An intense tranquillity enveloped Dare, such as he couldn’t remember experiencing in his life before.

  “Are we going to the village?”

  Mara’s question startled him back to life. “Damn. I’ve taken the wrong turn again.”

  “You always did that,” she said with a chuckle. “Simon used to tease that you had a homing instinct for the ale at the Drunken Monk.”

  “Excellent ale, as I remember. Pity it’s too late to stop.”

  “We could,” she said, as they entered the village and the ancient inn came into view, clearly in full use.

  “You’d upset the locals.”

  The road followed the churchyard wall and they heard a different kind of singing: Evensong.

  “We’ll soon be married there,” Mara said softly, then added, “I wish it could be now.”

  Dare halted the gig. “So do I.”

&nbs
p; “Alas that even Uncle Scipio wouldn’t agree to marry us without a license.”

  Dare kissed her fingers. “We could attend the end of the service. Give thanks for the day.”

  And beg God’s mercy for the night.

  He tethered the horse and they walked up the path between gravestones and spring flowers. When they pushed open the heavy old doors, the hymn grew in volume, and when they opened the next doors to enter the body of the church, the rough but hearty singing filled the space.

  St. Bride’s was no more a great church than Brideswell was a great house, but it had the same comfortable rightness. The church was older than the house, having been part of the monastery of St. Bride, founded long before the Conquest. It was said that the church foundations went back that far.

  They slipped into a back pew and joined in as the service was completed. When the congregation filed out, everyone said a good evening to Mara, many of them including Dare by name, remembering him from the past and from the wedding.

  Then they rose to greet the vicar, Mara’s uncle, a rotund, hearty man.

  “A wedding here soon, I gather. Excellent, excellent. Everyone should be married in their home church. I don’t hold with these London weddings.”

  “Some people do live in London,” Dare pointed out, amused.

  The round eyes widened. “Do they? Oh, dear, I suppose they must. And you’re dragging poor Sim off there, I hear. Duty must, I suppose. Did you wish to talk to me about the service?”

  “Not now, Uncle,” Mara said. “We’re just visiting the church.”

  “Excellent, excellent. Commune with the Lord! You must excuse me, then. My supper awaits.” He strode off toward his vestry and Dare walked down the aisle, over flagstones and brasses marking the passing of illustrious St. Brides toward the altar and the stone cross beyond it.

  Commune with the Lord. Here it seemed possible to an extraordinary degree. Something was humming in Dare’s mind, something that reminded him of taichi and the hard-won peace he could find in discipline and meditation. Here it simply floated in the air, like music, like a blessing, available on a breath.

  “Why was the monastery built here?” he asked, quiet in the sacred space.