Jo Beverley - Lady Beware

by Jo Beverley

  “Because men enjoy action and danger.”

  “So true. Did you hear that Cardew Frobisher lies seriously injured after trying to enter the Tower over the wall?”

  “Why on earth did he do that?”

  “Exactly! Why, when there are perfectly adequate entrances? After surviving the war with hardly a scratch. His poor mother.”

  “I always thought Medora made a mistake in trying to tempt Conrad with evenings of music and reading,” Thea said. “She’d have done better with hearty meals, manly company, and lots of hunting.”

  Her mother chuckled. “So wise, dearest. You’ll make any man a wonderful wife. I saw you with Avonfort last night.” Her tone was coy.

  “Yes, he proposed again. I’m just not ready, Mama.”

  “As you said, you deserve a lighthearted season before settling down.”

  But clearly in the duchess’s eyes, too, the match was settled.

  At Thea’s door, her mother asked, “Do you wish to come out with me later?”

  Thea knew she’d be highly unlikely to meet Darien on morning calls, but she’d be safer at home. With both her mother and father out, she could simply refuse to see him if he called.

  “I’d rather practice the piano,” she said. “I have a new piece I’d like to play after dinner tomorrow.”

  “That will be pleasant, dear.”

  Dinner made Thea think of Darien and confrontation, but music did soothe her—until her mother returned from the social round, still dressed in high fashion and cross. “So tiresome. Such unfair comments about Darien! I moderated them as best I could, but I couldn’t yet come out in full support.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Phoebe Wilmott’s left Town. Never has a quiet departure been so thunderous.”

  “You can’t blame her, Mama. To encounter Darien would be exquisitely painful.”

  “OurLord Darien bears no responsibility for her daughter’s death. Come along to my room so I can change into something more comfortable as we consider this. Even the Vile Viscount wasn’t to blame for Mary Wilmott’s death,” she said, leading the way briskly, “unless one blames the parent for the child. So unfortunate that they are neighbors.”

  Thea was having trouble following. “Who are neighbors?”

  “Darien and the Wilmotts. I suppose opposite sides of the square is not quite neighbors.”

  “Cave House is on the same square…?” Thea gasped. “How unbearable!”

  “Phoebe’s borne it for years,” her mother said, with unusual tartness as she entered her bedroom.

  “But notinhabited ,” Thea pointed out. “With the chance of meeting a Cave any day.”

  “That’s how the murder came to happen,” the duchess said, as her maid helped her shed bonnet and layers. “Mary Wilmott would hardly have been at large in London at night. I suppose she must have thought the square’s private garden was safe as only residents have keys. Ah, yes.” She picked up a folder of papers. “Mr. Thoresby’s preliminary report.”

  “What does it say?” Thea asked, fingers itching to open it.

  “Oh, the usual. Educated at home, Harrow, of course, then the army. I am most cross with Wellington.”

  Thea stared. “Why?” The duke was everyone’s darling these days.

  “Would you believe that he was responsible for that Mad Dog name? Fortunately it didn’t become Darien’s principal nickname. Only think of poor Fuzzy Staceyhume, called that because his hair was wild in his youth, and now he’s mostly bald. Or Wolf Wolverton, and he the most gentlemanly man imaginable. Or Mad Jack Mytton. But then,” the duchess added thoughtfully, “he truly was mad—”

  “Mother!”

  “What?”

  “The report? It must contain some negatives.”

  “Not really, but by all means read it.” She passed it over. “Darien hasn’t paid much attention to his estates, but he’s not long out of the army. I’m sure he’ll attend to them when he settles down. He’ll doubtless apply himself to Parliament and local administration as well, and he may well want a position at the Horse Guards, having military experience.”

  Thea escaped with the report, feeling she should warn Darien of this onslaught of responsibilities, but also thinking he might be well served for imposing himself on her family.

  Once in her room, she flipped through the papers. The closely written pages included accounts and a family tree. She glanced at that, but it was sparse. Four sons in Darien’s family. Two in his father’s. One in his grandfather’s.

  In some families the increase could be seen as progress, but not with Caves.

  His Italian mother had been called Maddalena D’Auria, and nothing further was said about her. She’d died when her youngest child, Francis Angelo, was three. So Darien would have been seven.

  Darien’s name was Horatio Raffaelo. Angels, she scoffed to herself. Satan and Lucifer would have been more appropriate.

  The oldest son had been named for the Roman emperor and philosopher Marcus Aurelius. That had been a wild stab at optimism, as had Christian for the second. Christian Michelangelo.

  What strange aspirations lay behind such names? What lay behind her own? Theodosia—God’s gift. She put that aside and settled to reading.

  Thoresby had uncovered that Horatio Cave had been expelled from Harrow for fighting, but not why, or anything about Dare andcave canem . There were the dates of Darien’s army career and his decadelong progression from cornet to major. He’d received rapid promotion to lieutenant because of a battle in which the senior officers of his regiment had been killed or injured. Cornet Cave had taken charge and led the men successfully.

  She realized that he’d been only sixteen years old.

  She had no trouble in believing that story, or others of courage, decisiveness, and command. She might admire it if she and her family weren’t the enemy this formidable man was attacking.

  She paused on an incident involving Vandeimen. It seemed Canem Cave and Demon Vandeimen had ended up behind enemy lines, each with a small troop of men. By dash and courage, their combined forces had not only fought clear but captured three French officers and a chest of gold.

  She considered the information on Darien’s finances and property. He owned three estates—the main one, Stours Court in Warwickshire; a secondary one, Greenshaw in Lancashire; and another, Ballykilneck in Cavan County, Ireland. Mr. Thoresby had been able to discover little about the latter other than that the rental income from it was negligible. Greenshaw was reportedly neglected, having been under the management of Marcus Cave.

  Mad Marcus had died five years ago in Bedlam. Time enough for someone to clear up the mess. But then, apparently it was traditionally the heir’s property, so it would have passed to the next brother, Christian, whose only superiority over his brother was sanity. He’d died last year, struck by lightning with his father. As her mother had said, though Darien had inherited a year ago, he’d only been out of the army for a short time. She would try to be fair.

  At Stours Court the land was all leased and worked, and Darien had recently appointed a new and better steward, who was beginning to improve the estate. The house needed extensive work, however, or was in danger of falling down.

  The last section was on Cave House, and its very blandness showed that Thoresby hadn’t known quite how to handle such a touchy subject. He’d clearly decided that there was no point in recounting the lurid details of the murder. Instead, there was the address, including a map of the square, with its terraces of houses on each side and the railed private gardens in the center.

  Elevations and floor plans showed a typical house, but Thea pored over them as if they might give a peephole into Darien’s life. She caught herself at it and tidied the papers. There was nothing shocking in them, but Thea wasn’t reassured. Thoresby hadn’t uncovered the truth about Harrow, so what else had he missed? She wasn’t surprised, however, when her mother confirmed that she’d sent Darien the dinner invitation.

  At least
Thea had one remaining night of unpolluted pleasure. The Wraybourne musical evening was one of her favorite events of the season. The company was always select, and there was no attempt at a “crush.” The music would be excellent. This year, the boys’ choir from Westminster Abbey would perform. It would be glorious.

  They attended two routs on their way, passing through crowded houses to fulfill as many social obligations as possible in the limited time the season allowed. Mrs. Calford’s rout was a little thin, but Lady Netherholt’s was packed. Thea became separated from her parents, but she might have escaped in blessed ignorance if she hadn’t bumped into Alesia de Roos.

  Alesia grabbed her arm and hissed, “That’s the Vile Viscount over there!”

  Chapter 12

  Aquick glance showed Alesia was correct, and even worse, Darien was talking to the Vandeimens. If her parents spotted them, they’d be sure to go over.

  All three looked at ease, but a subtle space had formed around them even in this crowd. And the man expected her to join him in shunned isolation?

  “They call him Canem Cave,” Alesia whispered. “It means ‘mad dog’!”

  “No, it doesn’t. The closest translation would be ‘dog beware.’”

  “Don’t be so literal, Thea. It’s almost the same thing. He gives me the most delicious shivers. Oh, save me! He’s looking at us.”

  Thea made the mistake of checking on that. Her eyes clashed with his.

  “Then don’t look back,” she said, turning away. “I must go—”

  But the Fortescue sisters joined them. “Are you talking about the Vile Viscount?” Cecily whispered.

  “Horrid, isn’t it?” Cassandra added, eyes bright. “We can’t think of a reason to approach.”

  “Approach!” Alesia gasped. “He should be thrown out.”

  “But he’s with the Vandeimens,” Cassandra pointed out. “Lady Netherholt can hardly offend them.”

  “Hewas little better,” Alesia said. “And Lady Vandeimen—”

  Thea interrupted, speaking coldly. “Need I remind you that Maria Vandeimen is a relative of mine?”

  Alesia turned red.

  “I must go,” Thea said, desperate to be out of this mess. “My parents are ready to leave.”

  If they weren’t, they soon would be. That man was a menace. He was harming Maria’s reputation and causing discord between Thea and her friends.

  Cassandra Fortescue called after her: “Where do you go on to, Thea?”

  Thea turned back. “Lady Wraybourne’s. You?”

  Cecily replied for her sister. “Lady Lessington’s.”

  Thea waved farewell and found her mother, who was wafting a large silk and feather fan and rather red in the face.

  “You look hot, too, dear,” said the duchess. “But Penelope Netherholt will be pleased by such a crush. Ah, there’s your father. Let us escape.”

  As they moved into the flow of people leaving, Thea thanked heaven for escape, but she found the man’s presence pursued her.

  All around people murmured:

  “Darien.”

  “Cave.”

  “Wilmott…”

  Her mother’s tense smile showed she heard the whispers, too. Thea feared that she’d stop to challenge someone, but the flow of people pushed them toward the stairs. They’d reached them when a voice said, “Duke, Duchess, you’re leaving, too?”

  Thea’s parents turned, so she had to, too. Darien was close behind them, and he’d managed that because people were shifting to let him through—or rather, to avoid contact. If he noticed he showed no sign of it.

  “Such a crush,” he said pleasantly. “The Wraybourne musicale will be a relief.”

  “You’re going there, too, Darien? May we take you up in our carriage?”

  Thea wanted to clap her hand over her mother’s mouth. And how had the outcast gained an invitation?

  “It’s only a few streets…,” he demurred.

  “But you may as well ride. Night streets can be so dangerous.” The duchess was speaking a little louder than necessary, making sure those nearby heard her. She even tapped Darien’s arm playfully with her fan. “Of course you won’t think of that after fighting in so many battles.”

  “On the contrary, Duchess. To survive Napoleon and be taken down by a footpad would be ridiculous.”

  The duchess laughed and even the duke smiled. Thea didn’t know how many people had heard the exchange, but everyone would notice the good humor and perhaps begin to doubt their attitudes.

  “I don’t think you’ve met my daughter, Darien,” the duchess said, smiling warmly. “Thea, this is Viscount Darien, who was so kind to Dare. Darien, Lady Theodosia.”

  Thea felt caught wrong-footed in a dance. Her curtsy was a beat late, her smile awkward.

  His eyes glinted. The man was enjoying her discomfiture.

  Then the situation became worse. As they descended the stairs it was necessary to go two by two and she found herself partnering the one man in London she was desperate to avoid. Darien extended his arm. She had to take it. She didn’t know what was worse—the sense of his powerful energy or the novel sensation of society staring at her in horrified disbelief.

  She looked ahead, smiling as lightly as she could manage. “The Wraybournes have engaged the Abbey boys’ choir, my lord. Are you sure that sort of music will suit you?”

  “Bawdy drinking songs would be more suitable, you think?”

  She flickered a glance in his direction. “Or opera, given your Italian blood?”

  “Such a disreputable thing, Italian blood.”

  Thea felt her cheeks heat. She’d meant that but didn’t relish having it pointed out.

  “I have little experience with opera,” he said. “Though I’ve appreciated an opera dancer now and then.”

  “I’m sure you have, my lord, but that is not a subject a gentleman refers to in a lady’s company.”

  “Lady Theodosia, are you implying that I’m not a gentleman?”

  His tone was smooth, but Thea’s heart suddenly raced. “Of course not. Mama wishes to help you fit into society, that is all. So I thought I’d give you the hint.”

  “You think that I don’t know how to behave in society?”

  “Clearly not,” she snarled, still smiling, “when you mention opera dancers to a lady.”

  “A lady who knows what they are, I note.”

  “That’s…”

  “I’m not sure I approve of that in my betrothed.”

  Thea was so alarmed she missed the fact that they’d arrived at the bottom of the stairs and stumbled. When a strong hand grasped her arm, she instinctively tensed to resist. He released her as soon as she had her balance, but she felt as shaken as if she’d tumbled down the stairs, top to bottom.

  “Are you all right, Thea?” her mother asked, peering at her.

  “Yes, of course, Mama.” She pulled free of his arm.

  He made no attempt to restrain her. “Strange, how trying to take an extra step seems almost as hazardous as not realizing a step is there at all.”

  “Expectations,” Thea’s father put in. “Like taking a fence expecting firm ground on the far side and finding a bog.”

  Darien and the duke settled into hunting talk, giving Thea a chance to recover.

  If she could.

  He meant to hold her to her promise. He might speak of it to her parents at any moment.

  “Sarah!” The sharp hiss almost made Thea jump out of her skin. She turned to see chunky Mrs. Anstruther leaning close to her mother, her two thin unmarried daughters standing nearby, looking like frightened rabbits.

  “Do you know who you have in train?” Mrs. Anstruther whispered, red-faced.

  Thea’s mother pretended mild confusion. “What? Oh, you mean Viscount Darien, Ann? An old friend of my son’s. Did so splendidly in the war, you know.”

  Ann Anstruther’s lips drew in like a purse. “Many of the most gallant soldiers are not quite suited to our drawing rooms, Sarah. Or,
to our daughters. You cannot have forgotten Mary Wilmott.”

  “Of course not, but it would be a sad world if we all had to suffer for our brothers’ sins.”

  Thea bit her lip. Ann Anstruther’s brother was a notoriously loose fish.

  Mrs. Anstruther straightened majestically. “Mybrother has never murdered anyone, and neither have any of yours. You’re being softhearted as usual, Sarah, but this is beyond anything. Come, girls!”