Jo Beverley - Lady Beware

by Jo Beverley

  In neat engraving, two rotund men sprawled upon a hillside with the mouth of hell open below them. Imps had hold of their booted feet to drag them down to where flames, Lucifer, and a bloated monster of a man awaited.

  In case anyone missed the points, the monster was labeled “Mad Marcus Cave” and the two men were labeled “The Unholy Christian Cave” and “Vile Viscount Darien.” From thunderclouds above, God hurled a thunderbolt from each hand, with the captioned word, large and bold,“Cave!”

  At the bottom, the picture was titledThe Wrath of God.

  “Well,” he muttered to the sender, “and damn you to hell, too.”

  The cartoon was accurate in the essentials. His father, the sixth Viscount Darien, and his other older brother, the very unholy Christian Cave, had been found dead on moors near Stours Court. They’d been out shooting and were killed during a thunderstorm.

  When he’d heard the news Darien hadn’t felt a twinge of grief, but he’d wished they’d died less obtrusively. He wished it even more now. Marcus’s foul crime had been six years ago and he’d been dead for five, but the Wrath of God had occurred only last year.

  Was this cartoon being reprinted and displayed again? At whose instigation? As he crushed the image in his fist, the knocker hammered again. “God Almighty! What now?” he exclaimed, rising to his feet. Bad things, he remembered, came in threes.

  He strode to the door to meet his fate, but it opened to show Prussock again, looking even crosser. “You have a guest, milord,” he accused.

  “You mean a visitor, Prussock.”

  “No, milord. The gentleman says he has come to stay.”

  “Who—”

  But the gentleman in question appeared behind the butler, large, round, beaming, and as always resembling a six-foot-tall cherub. “Nice house, Canem,” said Pup Uppington, erstwhile lieutenant in Darien’s regiment. Darien stared, wondering what he’d done to deserve this.

  Pup had been christened Percival Arthur Uppington by parents who’d hoped for a mighty warrior. When he’d turned out to be short of a full dozen they’d sent him into the army anyway. By some miracle he’d survived long enough to make it from cornet to lieutenant, being passed around regiments until he’d landed, confused but willing, under Captain Cave’s command.

  It had seemed that the whole army had agreed that Pup fit beautifully there, by name if for no other reason. He’d acquired the nickname “Pup” in school, but the prospect of making him Canem’s Pup had been too much for anyone to resist.

  That might have been why Darien hadn’t tried to shuffle him off, and why he’d kept Pup alive over the Pyrenees, through France and the false peace, and even through Waterloo. The unfortunate consequence was that Pup was as devoted as a puppy. Darien had thought he’d shed him when Pup had inherited a godfather’s money late last year, but Pup had stayed in the army, devoted as always.

  When Darien himself had sold his commission, he’d assumed that would sever the cord, especially as Pup had left at the same time to claim his modest fortune. What in Hades was he doing here?

  “Thank you, Prussock,” Darien said, rather dazedly.

  When the butler stepped to the side and worked around Pup to leave, he revealed an astonishing waistcoat curving over Pup’s belly, one composed of blue and yellow paisley. Pup’s clothing was all disastrously in the absolutely latest style, including collar points that rose over his ears and a mass of cravat at the front that was probably supposed to be something fanciful like the waterfall knot, but reminded Darien of a cauliflower.

  “What are you doing here, Pup?”

  “Fancied a bit of London,” the young man replied. “Thought, Canem has a house. No wife, no family. Must want some company.” His beam showed his certainty of doing a saintly deed.

  Yes, indeed. Trouble did come in threes.

  “You won’t like it here, Pup. I’m persona non grata.”

  “Persona what?”

  “Not welcome. No invitations. No parties. No anything.” Hell, he was starting to talk like him. “You’ll be more comfortable at an inn. Or a hotel,” he quickly amended. The restrained propriety of a hotel would be much safer.

  Pup, loose, unaccompanied in London.

  Double hell.

  “This is fine, Canem. Better than many billets we’ve had, eh?”

  Why the devil hadn’t he let Pup drown in the Loire when he’d had the chance? Darien was assembling new arguments when there was another knock.

  “Come!” he yelled. This was against the rules. There couldn’t befour .

  Prussock bore a single letter—on the salver this time, and with an air of portent. “From the Duchess of Yeovil!” he declared, loud enough for the residents next door to hear.

  Darien took the letter, braced for the judgment of the Fates. He snapped the large crested seal and unfolded the expensive paper—to find a warmly phrased thank-you for his assistance to her son.

  Not four. Instead, the first step to victory.

  “Duchess, eh?” Pup chortled. “Knew you were funning about grata stuff! Canem Cave, after all. Welcome everywhere! Which room shall I have?”

  Perhaps it was the sweetness of the minor victory, or simply that he couldn’t toss the moonling out to fend for himself in one of the wickedest cities in the world, but Darien didn’t struggle. Pup could have Marcus’s old room. His innocent cheer might fumigate it and scare off the ghosts. He carried Pup’s valise upstairs while the young man shouldered his trunk without strain.

  “No valet, Pup?”

  “Had one. Frightened me.”

  “Use mine while you’re here. He’s not frightening, but he does drink.”

  As he put Pup’s valise down in the room, an idea stirred. Was it possible to hire the equivalent of a lady’s companion for a man? Young men traveling for their education had bear-leaders to guide them and keep them out of harm. Why not a combination of valet and tutor to guide Pup through life?

  Have to be just the right person. Someone who wouldn’t take advantage.

  Van might know. Or his Fate-full wife.

  He turned to leave, but Pup said, “So, what’ll we do now?”

  “I’m busy, Pup. Lots of paperwork with a title.”

  “Tonight, then. I want to visit a London brothel, Canem. Thebest brothel in London.”

  Darien closed his eyes briefly. “We’ll go out and see the sights,” he promised and escaped.

  He stopped by the drawing room. At this rate, he might need it. He raised one white cotton cover and saw an old-fashioned heavy sofa. Beneath the cloth on the floor was an adequate carpet. The walls were painted a rather depressing buff, but probably with minimum work the room could be usable.

  He wondered when this room had indeed last been used. Hard to imagine his father hosting a drawing room affair, and his mother had stopped coming to London early in her married life, unwilling to fight the arctic ton. He himself had never come here. Before going to school, he’d been trapped at Stours Court.

  His grandmother? Equally unlikely. Devil Darien’s wife had sued for separation on the grounds of intolerable cruelty, and got it. So her rule here could only have been in the early years of that marriage, long, long ago.

  He wondered about the shrouded pictures on the walls and pulled off one cloth. A gloomy landscape with towering mountains and small figures. Another revealed a blank-faced woman in the fashion of the last century. Probably Devil’s wife, before escaping hell.

  Was there a picture of his mother here? He’d never seen one and his own memory of her was faint. He pulled off more shrouds and found a portrait of his father.

  It was a reasonably good oil of a coarse-featured man who looked to be in his thirties. It had probably been painted when he’d inherited the title, long before he married. If the artist had been a flatterer, God help them all.

  Even then, the Vile Viscount’s heavy face had been blotched and ruddy, his nose bloated, his brown hair thin. Chins hung over a sloppily tied neckcloth and his round b
elly strained the buttons of a plain waistcoat. All the same, he sat straddle-legged and confident of his power.

  The image resembled the older man Darien remembered, including the slack, reddish lips and pouched, cruel eyes—eyes that seemed to look at him now and say,Think you’re better than me, lad? You’re a Cave, too, and no one will ever forget it.

  “Who’s that?”

  Pup’s voice startled Darien. Of course he’d come to find him. Would he know a moment’s peace?

  “You don’t see a resemblance?” he asked.

  Pup walked to stand in front of the picture. “Of who? Bit of the regent, perhaps. Remember, when he reviewed the regiment last year?”

  Darien laughed aloud. Pup might be good to have around after all. He found a sturdy chair beneath one cloth, carried it over, and with Pup’s help unhooked the heavy painting.

  That revealed a square of clear yellow paint behind.

  Let that be a good sign.

  He carried the picture into his father’s old rooms and shut the door on it. Pup was hovering, looking tail-waggingly keen to do more furniture moving.

  “Have to work,” Darien said, and escaped back to his office.

  All the same, he felt lighter than he had in eons. Van, the duchess’s letter, and even Pup contributed. Exasperating as Pup was, he was the antithesis of everything the Cave name stood for. But then Darien remembered the blood on the doorstep andThe Wrath of God . Cave House was no place for any innocent. He’d have to sort out Pup’s situation soon.

  When he sat to his ledgers and leases again, however, his mind wouldn’t stick to them. He sat back and reviewed.

  The duchess’s letter showed that Lady Theodosia hadn’t told her mother what had happened. Therefore, she must be willing to go through with the bargain. He hadn’t been at all sure she would. Especially after that kiss.

  So, he even had something to look forward to—his next encounter with the Great Untouchable.

  He laughed at that name. It was as stupid as Mad Dog Cave.

  Chapter 11

  Thea spent the rest of Wednesday fearing a Cave invasion and, against logic, worried that she’d encounter the man at the Almack’s assembly. Of course, even he couldn’t bully his way past the formidable patronesses, so she flung herself into the delights of a normal evening.

  She chatted with friends and danced every dance, and Lord Avonfort proposed. It was the fifth time, and for the fifth time she put him off, but she was in such a good mood that she might have accepted him if not for the Cave business. She wasn’t going to betroth herself to the Vile Viscount, but promising to marry someone else right now would be a bit much.

  For some reason, Avonfort chose this occasion to persist.

  “Why not, Thea? You know we’re ideally suited.”

  “Yes,” she said honestly, for she did.

  He was a handsome, brown-haired man of twenty-eight and generally acknowledged as one of the most elegant dressers in the ton. He had a lovely house and estate not far from Long Chart. She’d known him all her life, and liked his mother and two sisters. His youngest sister, now Lady Kingstable, was a particular friend.

  “I can’t make such a commitment yet, Avonfort. Dare—”

  “He himself is engaged to marry, Thea, so he can hardly object if you do the same.”

  “That’s not what I mean. It’s simply that I need some calm before making important decisions.”

  “How much time?” he demanded—rather imperiously, she thought.

  She wanted to snap,As much time as I want , but instead she said, “Six weeks,” the term Lord Darien had hung over her head. No matter what happened, in six weeks she’d be free.

  “Six weeks!” he protested. “That’s the whole season.”

  “And I want to enjoy the whole season. We’ll talk more at Long Chart in the summer.”

  He frowned, but she saw him take that as a guarded promise. He was probably correct, but it annoyed her. It also made her even more determined to sort out her situation with the Vile Viscount.

  On Thursday morning, she asked her mother about Mr. Thoresby’s report, but it hadn’t appeared yet. In case the Vile Viscount invaded, she went to visit Maddy.

  Her cousin was only just out of bed and still in her nightclothes, but she was bright-eyed, with only one subject on her mind. “Have you seen Lord Darien yet?”

  Shedding her outer clothing, Thea lied by instinct. “No.”

  “I haven’t either, but last night Caroline Camberley said he’s Conrad to the very inch! Have some chocolate.” She shouted for her maid to find another cup.

  “Conrad? Conrad who?”

  “The Corsair!”

  “Oh, Byron,” Thea said, taking a seat. Lord Byron’s dramatic poem,The Corsair , had been all the rage a while back. “In what way?”

  “In manner, for one thing.” Maddy had the slim volume to hand and turned to a marked page. “Listen!‘That man of loneliness and mystery, / Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh.’ Isn’t that wonderful?”

  It resonated, but Thea said, “He sounds very disagreeable.”

  “You have no romance in your soul. I willdie if I don’t meet him, but he doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. Mama’s saying he’ll be thrown out if he dares.”

  It couldn’t be a secret, so Thea said, “Mother is planning his social reinstatement, so you’ll probably have many chances.”

  “Oh, wonderful!” Maddy moved on to another passage.“‘What is that spell, that thus his lawless train / Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain? / What should it be, that thus their faith can bind? / The power of thought—the magic of the mind!’ The magic of the mind,” she repeated, clutching the book to her breasts. “Imagine being powerless before a man’s demanding will.”

  “Absolutely horrid,” Thea stated.

  “Thea, you’re impossible.”

  The maid returned with a cup and saucer and Maddy poured chocolate. “A pity he’s ugly.”

  “Darien? I wouldn’t say…” Thea stopped herself and Maddy didn’t notice her slip.

  “Conrad!” Maddy recited from memory.“‘Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, / Demons in act, but Gods at least in face, / In Conrad’s form seems little to admire.’ I’d love to meet a god.”

  Thea sipped her chocolate, struggling not to laugh. “An old man with a white beard?”

  “Apollo! Adonis!”

  “Neptune with seaweed for hair?”

  Maddy threw a cushion at her.

  “You can’t believe Caroline on anything,” Thea said, putting the cushion aside. “But Lord Darien doesn’t sound to your taste.”

  “He has a ‘glance of fire,’” Maddy said.

  “Lord Darien? How alarming.”

  “Conrad! From dark eyes. Which Darien does have. I must meet him soon. Promise, Thea, if you hear he is to be at any event, alert me!”

  “Really, Maddy, he’s best left alone.” Thea grabbed the book. Like everyone else, she knew the poem almost by heart and it only took a moment to find the passage.

  There was a laughing devil in his sneer,

  That raised emotions of both rage and fear;

  And where his frown of hatred darkly fell,

  Hope withering fled—and mercy sighed farewell.

  Instead of dismay, Maddy sighed. “Oh.Delicious. ”

  Thea slammed the book shut. “You’re fit for Bedlam.”

  “Then it is glorious to be mad!”

  Thea endured another half hour of Maddy’s ravings before making her escape, but that passage of poetry ran in her head. It sounded all too apt. This was the man she expected to see sense? The man who had reason, no matter how distant and warped, to hate her family?

  When she returned home, she met her mother in the upstairs corridor.

  “How is Maddy?” the duchess asked.

  “Running mad over the Corsair.”

  Her mother put a hand to the wall. “Never say she’s taken up with a pirate!”

  Thea lau
ghed. “Of course not. The poem. Byron.”

  Her mother’s expression was almost as appalled. “Lord Byron is back?”

  “Poem, not poet, Mama. Conrad, Medora, Gulnare, harems.”

  “Oh, that.” The duchess continued with Thea toward the bedrooms. “Such a tale of folly. Medora was in the right of it to point out that her husband had enough money to stay at home and enjoy domestic life. So why sail off again to plunder?”