by Jo Beverley
Lady Beware
A NOVEL OF THE COMPANY OF ROGUES
Jo Beverley
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
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Copyright © Jo Beverley Publications, Inc., 2007
All rights reserved
ISBN: 1-4295-3555-5
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Author’s Note
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With thanks as always to my wonderful agent, Margaret Ruley and the Rotrosen Agency, and my super editor, Claire Zion, and all the supportive people at New American Library. Thanks especially to the art department for the great cover onLady Beware .
The members of my chat group at Yahoogroups are always ready with encouragement, lively questions, and useful information. Kathy, Lisa, and Joan—thanks so much for shortcutting my research oncave canem and Roman traditions. (Anyone can join at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/jobeverley.)
And to my readers everywhere—you’re what makes my books come alive.
Chapter 1
London May 1817
Lady Thea Debenham wriggled out of her frothy green gown. “A new gown, Harriet. Now.”
“Butbeetroot , milady!” her maid wailed, gathering the maroon-stained confection as if it were a wounded child.
“I know, I know, but I’m sure you can work some magic. Please. Another gown.”
“Which one, milady?”
“I don’t care!” But that wasn’t true. Thea whirled to check herself in the long mirror. Her underwear always matched her gowns, so she was sea green from stay frill to petticoat hem. “Do I have anything else close to this color?”
“No, milady.”
Thea bit her knuckle—which made her aware of her green silk gloves. She stripped them off. “Anything, then. Is there something I haven’t worn yet?”
Harriet ran to the dressing room next door.
Thea saw her green slippers peeping out. “Matching slippers!” she called.
She bent to take off the slippers but was caught by the stiff busk of her evening corset. It didn’t let her bend at the waist at all. Blast the busk and blast Uffham! She’d felt armored for this difficult evening by the most becoming ensemble in her wardrobe.
In keeping with fashion, the green gown had an extremely low bodice, and that had caused disaster. The Marquess of Uffham had been so engaged in ogling her bosom that the pickled beetroot on his tilted plate had slid off and down her gown.
Two ladies had actually shrieked.
Thea had managed not to, but she’d wanted to. Ruined. The gown had to be ruined—at its first wearing. And tonight of all nights. She paced the room, silk petticoat swishing.
On the surface her mother’s ball was to celebrate the betrothal of Thea’s brother, Lord Darius Debenham, to Lady Mara St. Bride. Beneath that felicitous froth lurked a deeper purpose. New trouble had surfaced for Dare.
He’d suffered so much. He’d fought at Waterloo, been badly wounded, and been listed among the dead. Thea and her family had believed that for over a year—a long, terrible year. In fact he’d not died, but the woman who’d nursed him had given him too much opium for too long, so that he’d returned to England frail and addicted.
They’d nursed him back to health and now he’d found love. He’d struggled down to a very small daily amount of opium. But now this. As if the Fates couldn’t bear to see him happy, a horrid rumor had started. Tongues wagged all around London that he hadn’t been honorably wounded at Waterloo, but when trying to flee the battlefield.
It wasn’t true! Anyone who knew Dare knew it wasn’t true, but there was no one to deny the story. Even he didn’t remember much about falling in battle or the days after, and fear that the story might be true was dragging him back down into the dark.
They needed a witness. It had been a battle, for heaven’s sake. There must have been hundreds of men nearby. But it seemed that smoke hung like fog around a battlefield, action was fragmented, and everyone was intent on their own part.
So all Thea and her family could do at this moment was present a confident front and use every scrap of their immense influence. This
hastily arranged ball was their challenge flung in the teeth of the ton: attend and show you don’t believe such drivel; stay away and you are no friend of ours.
Of course, everyone who was anyone had come. The Duke and Duchess of Yeovil were powerful, but they were also universally liked and admired. Everyone had come—but Thea had sensed, and even sometimes heard, the questions simmering beneath the smiles.
Could the story be true? Lord Darius wasn’t a trained soldier, after all, but a gentleman volunteer. Not surprising, perhaps, if such a terrible battle proved too much….
Was that why he took so long to come home? Leaving his poor mother so distraught with grief…?
Is that why he still needs opium—guilt?
Thea had smiled, danced, and flirted, showing the world that Dare’s family held no doubts, but disaster hovered, and here she was, on the other side of the house in her underwear.
“Harriet!”
“Coming, milady!” The maid ran out of the dressing room, deep red satin trailing from her arms, matching stays and slippers on top.
“Oh,” Thea said. “That.”
On arriving in London for this season, she’d learned she’d been tagged “the Great Untouchable.” Cold, distant, and haughty. It was so unfair! Was it surprising that she’d not thrown herself into frivolity during her first season in 1815, with Napoleon returning to torment Europe and then Dare rushing off to fight?
As for last year…that had been a disaster. They’d still thought Dare dead. Thea had only attempted a season at all to try to distract her mother from her grief. Was it surprising if she’d failed to be all warmth and light? If she’d turned away all suitors?
Hurt by that nickname, she’d ordered a number of bold gowns. The green had turned out well, but the red had been just a bit too much. She never wore red.
But tonight was a battle of sorts, so perhaps it was just the thing.
“Right.” She grabbed the stays and threw them on the bed. “There’s no time to change those.”
“But you’re wearing green, milady.”
“Which will be covered. Hurry.”
Harriet muttered, but she raised the gown over Thea’s head. Thea put her arms through the short sleeves and the rest slithered down over her like water. Or blood…
Lord!She stared at her reflection. The gown was cut in a new way, making the fabric flow down from the high waist, clinging to her shape. In the mirror, Harriet’s eyes were wide.
“It is a bit much, isn’t it, milady?” Harriet was in her thirties, but she’d been Thea’s maid for only two years and rarely presumed to volunteer opinions, so her comment was significant.
“Lord.” Thea said it aloud this time.
“I’ll get something else, milady….”
“There’s no time.” As soon as the gown was fastened, Thea sat on the bench. “The slippers.”
Harriet soon had the green slippers off and the red satin ones on, and was crossing and tying the ribbons.
Thea could still see herself in the mirror and she checked for problems. She was wearing pearls. Wrong for a red gown, but all her other good jewels were in her father’s safe. The band of white roses in her hair would have to go. She began to unpin it. As soon as Harriet finished, Thea went to the dressing table. “See what you can do with my hair.”
As Harriet tidied her brown curls, Thea studied her reflection. In red, her pale breasts seemed to dominate, raised high by the corset, the upper halves exposed. Perhaps she should change to something else….
But Harriet was fixing some red rosebuds and ribbons in her curls. Then the clock on her mantelpiece chimed eleven. Eleven! Thea stood, grabbed her mother-of-pearl fan—also inappropriate with red, but at least it went with the pearls—and headed for the door.
“Milady!”
Harriet’s shriek made Thea whirl back. “What?”
Harriet was pointing at her, eyes huge.
Thea spun to the long mirror. A narrow frill of green lace was showing garishly at the edge of her deep red neckline.
“The other stays, milady—”
“Changing will take forever.” Thea tugged the gown up and pushed the stays down, wriggling to make things settle into place. “There.”
“Milady…”
“Don’t fuss, Harriet. Do what you can for the green.”
Chapter 2
Thea hurried out into the dimly lit corridor and headed back to the ball. When she turned the corner, she caught sight of herself in a gilt-framed mirror, illuminated by a wall lamp at its side. That half inch of green showed again.
Peste!
She tossed her fan on a small table and readjusted everything. Lord! Too low! The darker area around her nipples had been showing. Why did fashion have to be so outrageous? Society preached modesty and good behavior, but expected ladies to dress like this.
There. She cupped her breasts and rotated her shoulders, testing the stability of the arrangement. It should stay….
But then something alerted her. She glanced sharply to the left and froze.
In the shadowy corridor, a man watched her. A man with the dark hair and eyes of a foreigner—heavy-lidded eyes that observed her with wicked amusement.
Face fiery, Thea grabbed her fan and flipped it open as a shield. “Who are you, sir? What are you doing in this part of the house?”
If he’d answered, this might be nothing but an embarrassing moment, but he did not.
And she didn’t know him.
She knew anyone who had reason to be in Yeovil House tonight, and she certainly wouldn’t have forgotten this man after even the briefest encounter.
Though not large or tall, his presence filled the corridor with an air of power and command. She could almost imagine that he’d sucked the air thinner. The light of the lamp beside her hardly reached him, and the next one was behind him, but she could tell his features were well formed and strong.
Dark evening clothes spoke of wealth, as did the flash of jewels in his white neckcloth. But he wasn’t a gentleman. No gentleman would look at a lady as he was doing now.
Whowas he, intruding into the private part of her home, making her heart thunder?
“Sir?” Thea demanded.
“Madam?” he responded, speaking at last, the one mocking word revealing a surprisingly mellow voice. And perhaps a foreign intonation?
Thea almost laughed with relief. Of course. He must be a new member of one of the embassies. They sometimes arrived with poor English and strange manners. One of the Persian diplomats had constantly invited ladies to join his harem.
“You are lost, sir?” Thea said, speaking slowly and clearly. “This is the private part of the house.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked toward her.
Thea took a sharp step back. She almost felt she should scream, but that would be ridiculous, here in her father’s house.
“Sir…,” she said again. Then she thrust out a gloved hand, palm forward. “Stop!”
To her surprise, he did. Her panic simmered down, but all the same, she was completely at a loss. She’d hate to cause a diplomatic incident, but every instinct was crying,Danger!
She gestured down the corridor. “May I guide you back to the ball, sir?”
“I believe I can find my way unaided.”
She froze, hand out.
His English was perfect.
“Then I will leave you to your wanderings,” she said and walked forward to pass him.
He moved to block her way.
Thea was caught within a foot of him, mouth suddenly paper dry. She could not possibly be in danger here, within call of family and servants.
But she was not within call of anyone. Her family were all with the guests, and most of the servants were busy there, too. Even Harriet would already be hurrying to the laundry with the ruined gown. She was, she realized, shockingly isolated in the dimly lit silence, in the company of a dangerous man.
She put eight hundred years of aristocratic power into
an icy challenge. “Sir?”
He inclined his head. “Madam. At your service. Depending entirely, of course, on the service you desire.”
In some subtle way, he lingered on the word “desire,” and she remembered the way he’d been watching her.